


The Black Wolf of Solitude

by thelightofmorning



Series: The Queen and Her Wolf [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Child Abandonment, Child Death, Child Neglect, Class Issues, Comedy of Errors, Courtly Love, Crimes & Criminals, F/F, F/M, Fantastic Racism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Misogyny, Mistaken Identity, Political Expediency, Polyamorous Character, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Religious Conflict, War Crimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-03-03 02:48:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 22,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13331886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelightofmorning/pseuds/thelightofmorning
Summary: Gytha Bark-Shod only agreed to wear the clothes from Radiant Raiment because she needed the money. She certainly didn't plan on being mistaken for an adventurer, saving Solitude (and the world) and falling in love with its beautiful Jarl.Fortunately for Skyrim, the gods had other ideas.





	1. Dressed for Success

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, classism, misogyny, poor-shaming, criminal acts, and mentions of war crimes, religious persecution and child neglect/abuse/abandonment. The rewrite of my old Gytha Bark-Shod series. Apologies for the crappy Google-translated Irish.

 

 _Turned out of another village,_ Gytha Bark-Shod thought resignedly as she left Dragon Bridge behind. Faida wanted her gone so she could court the handsome offer from the Penitus Oculatus in peace, the Lylvieve family couldn’t shelter her over winter, and Lodvar had no time for what he considered vagrants. At least the summer spent in the village granted her a small purse of coin, some new clothing and a pair of shoes not woven from birch bark.

            She picked thistles and purple mountain flowers on the way to Solitude. Alchemists were always willing to pay a few coins for ingredients to make warm-blood potions with winter coming on. Pity they weren’t willing to let her make a few at their tables and buy them.

            The guards let her past the gates with only a warning to watch herself or wind up like Roggvir. Gytha was treated to a lovely view of the said Roggvir getting his head removed by the executioner’s axe practically on entrance. She hurriedly entered the nearest shop to keep her meagre breakfast in her stomach.

            “Hello and welcome to Radiant Raiment,” observed a golden-skinned mer-woman with tawny hair from behind the counter. “If you need to ask the price, you’re in the wrong store.”

            Gytha took a quick glance at the racks of sumptuous, brightly dyed fabrics that lined the walls and backed away apologetically. She collided with someone who entered the shop behind her, earning a bit-off Altmer curse.

            “Watch what you’re doing,” the saffron-hued female snapped before narrowing sunset-orange eyes thoughtfully at Gytha. “Endarie, dear, we might have found ourselves a model.”

            Endarie snorted. “I doubt that greatly. She looks like a peasant.”

            Taarie sniffed. “I seem to recall your boast that you could make a peasant look like a Thane.”

            Gytha looked between the two mer-women, who shared a striking resemblance, warily. “What do you mean by ‘model’?”

            “Nothing too hard,” Taarie said airily. “We’re going to clean and dress you up, then send you to the Blue Palace to convince the court we’re the finest tailors in town.”

            Endarie sighed. “There’ll be some coin in it and you’ll even get to keep the clothing.”

            Gytha shrugged. “Sure, why not? If I screw up, at least I’ll get fed in prison.”

            “That’s the spirit!” Taarie enthused.

            The next two hours transformed Gytha from landless churl to someone who could be easily mistaken for a prosperous franklin. Taarie had her wash in scented soap before she cut her hair, braiding the remaining ash-brown tresses into a plaited ponytail, while Endarie fit a fine cotton dress, silky goat’s wool coat and bearskin mantle fastened by a gilded brooch to her slender frame.

“Shame about the scars,” the tailor said carelessly. “I suppose you could blame the Forsworn or something.”

“Stormcloaks,” Taarie suggested. “Elisif hates them.”

“I’m no fan of them either,” Gytha admitted sourly.

“Use that if you have to talk,” Endarie advised. “I must say, my clothing really has improved your appearance.”

“Humble as always, dear sister,” Taarie observed with snide affection. “I suppose she won’t embarrass us too much.”

The blue-coated Altmer added a few glass and gold-washed brass gauds to finish out the outfit. “Excellent,” she said. “Now, if you hurry, you should be able to reach the Blue Palace before dinner.”

Gytha stared at the reflection in the tall glass mirror. She looked respectable, maybe even honourable. “I’ll do my best, ma’am,” she said with all sincerity. “If you can make me look good…”

“We’ll make Elisif the Fair look like a goddess,” Endarie said simply. “Now go and bring us back some good news.”

Gytha had barely stepped out of the shop when she nearly ran into a dark-haired Imperial man with a bottle of rum in his hand. “Sorry,” she said hastily to him.

“Don’t worry,” the man replied. “Say, ah, are you going to the Blue Palace?”

“I am,” Gytha admitted.

“Normally I wouldn’t bother someone who’s been shopping at Radiant Raiment but I need to get some Stros M’kai rum to Falk Firebeard by sunset,” he explained. “If you care to indulge me by heading up to the Blue Palace, I’ve got a bottle of Surlie Brothers wine from Cyrodiil I can give you.”

She waved her hand dismissively. “I’ll take it up because it’s no trouble. I’m going up there anyway.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” He tugged his forelock after handing her the rum. “I’m Sorex Vinius.”

“Gytha,” was her reply. She just managed to swallow the Bark-Shod byname she’d picked up after a winter spent wearing birch-bark shoes.

“Again, thank you so much.” Sorex tugged his forelock again and returned to the inn.

Gytha tossed a coin to the beggar near Radiant Raiment, figuring she’d get into character and enjoy being important for a change, and headed towards the legendary Blue Palace.

Solitude was a grand old city and it showed. Where Windhelm was blocky and grim, Riften rotting and reeking, and Markarth oppressively angular, the capital city of Skyrim showed a grace that aged well. Whiterun was almost as lovely but Solitude had bright flowers and banners everywhere, even the servants wearing dyed garments.

The Blue Palace was the most majestic of the lot and Gytha feared the guards in their crimson wolf tabards would deny her entrance. But the one of the right simply nodded and opened the doors for her.

Afternoon court was almost over by the sounds of it, Junius Varnius talking about the strange lights and noises coming out of Wolfskull Cave. Elisif the Fair’s light young voice offered to send a legion to scour the cave until her advisor, a red-haired man who had to be Falk Firebeard, advised caution while the amber-eyed court mage swore there was nothing going on there.

“Very well, I’ll send a few soldiers to check it out,” Elisif finally decreed.

“Thank you, Jarl Elisif,” Junius babbled until Falk dismissed him.

He brushed past Gytha without a glance and she sighed in relief. He could have revealed her as a dressed-up churl.

“What brings you to the Jarl’s court?” Falk asked, directly addressing her. The other notables, including the Jarl, immediately looked in her direction and Gytha nearly considered running away. She really shouldn’t be here with such important people.

“Your rum from the Winking Skeever,” she said honestly, offering the bottle. “And you shouldn’t dismiss Wolfskull Cave so easily, Steward. I’ve seen those lights for myself, purple-black they are, and a few people have gone missing around Dragon Bridge over the summer.”

The court mage’s glowing eyes narrowed. “Purple-black?”

“The nearest way to describe it, ma’am. I didn’t want to take a closer look.”

Falk’s mouth tightened as he accepted the rum. “Sybille, purple-black is the colour of Conjuration magic, aye?”

“Yes.” The mage didn’t sound happy about it. “And if the wizards there can block _my_ scrying…”

Elisif shifted in her throne. She was fine-boned with the flame-red hair and bright blue eyes of the western Reach blood. Beneath her robes, her belly was slightly rounded. Pregnant and her husband murdered two months ago. Poor woman. Gytha felt sorry for her. “Pardon me, but your accent… You’re from High Rock?”

Gytha shook her head. “No, my Jarl. I’m from Talamh na Gréine, the lands just northeast of Markarth.”

The Jarl smiled slightly. “Not so far from Evermore as the crow flies. I guess you’d know sorcery when you see it.”

“As would you, being from Tailte Luí na Gréine,” Gytha said politely. After talking about Wolfskull Cave, how in Oblivion would she be able to work Radiant Raiment into the conversation?

Elisif sighed. “You have no idea how good it is to hear the accent of the mountains again. Could I extend the hospitality of the Blue Palace to you? It’s a long way from the Druadachs but we can still observe the old laws.”

Gytha bowed. “It would be an honour. Though I’m afraid my courtly manners are lacking. I’ve been a long time on the road.”

“Those who take umbrage at a warrior’s direct manner are fools not worth heeding,” observed the brown-haired Haafingar woman in rich robes and a copper circlet seated to the side. “Thane Bryling of Stonehills.”

“Honoured,” Gytha said with a bow to her. “Gytha.”

“No clan-name or byname?” sneered a rough-voiced man from behind Falk.

“You’re one to talk, Erikur,” Bryling noted dryly. “Though perhaps we should call you ‘Coin-Counter’.”

“My coin-counting keeps Haafingar alive in this time of civil war,” Erikur smirked. “I just recall the Reacher Nords being very proud of their clan names.”

Gytha regarded him flatly. “My family are dead and their name lost to me.”

Erikur smirked. “A useful fiction.”

She clenched her fists. “I _wish_ the Stormcloaks had been fiction, Erikur.”

“Thane Erikur, if you can’t be polite to a guest, I suggest you leave for the night,” Elisif advised, her tones icy. “Gytha has accepted my hospitality and by the laws of both the mountains and the lowlands, that’s an honoured status.”

She rose to her feet and everyone hurriedly stood. “Court is adjourned. We’ll be having dinner in the smaller dining room.”

Gytha bowed, praying she didn’t prove herself to be the fraud she was. Erikur had pegged her. But she just had to last a few hours, then she could go to the inn and tell the sisters how everything went in the morning. No trouble at all.

…

Elisif was relieved Erikur decided to leave the Blue Palace. The man was a financial genius but his abrasive arrogance and blatant greed troubled her. On the other hand, Bryling was honourable and steady but her sympathy for the Stormcloaks was a bit much. Both seemed to think she was incapable of being Jarl.

            Gytha visibly relaxed with his absence. “Amadán,” she muttered under her breath, earning a soft chuckle from the Jarl. It was good to hear the language of her mother’s people, even roughened by the burr of southern Skyrim. _Arse indeed._

            Falk outright grinned. Her mother’s cousin was a good man, one who supported her, but he tried to protect her. Elisif needed to seize power soon or she’d be nothing more than a puppet to the Empire… or possibly Ulfric’s forced bride.

            “I have no idea what that means but it certainly sounds appropriate,” Bryling said amusedly. “I must say, it’s a relief to have a fellow warrior at the table.”

            Gytha flushed, bringing out the stark lines of her many facial scars. Her simple statement about wishing the Stormcloaks had been fiction told a story Elisif knew only too well. So many Reacher Nords fled the Reach for High Rock after the Markarth Incident, as the Silver-Bloods consolidated their power by accusing them of collaborating with Madanach and taking their properties.

            The Jarl led everyone to the lesser dining room, where a plain repast was laid out on the table. Venison in juniper sauce, flatbread and frost mirriam paste, simple snowberries and cream. At least the alcohol wasn’t rationed yet. Elisif felt ashamed she couldn’t offer a proper meal to a fellow countrywoman.

            “If you’re wondering what they were talking about, the eastern Reach around Markarth is called the Lands of the Sunrise in the old Reach-tongue,” Falk was explaining softly to Bryling behind them. “The western Reach, where Jarl Elisif’s from, is called the Lands of the Sunset. Amadán just means ‘arse’, with the implication Erikur’s an idiot.”

            Bryling chuckled. “As I said, it sounded appropriate.”

            Gytha pulled at her ponytail nervously. Elisif was impressed by the elegant hairstyle – a thick braid woven through the right side and used to fasten the ponytail at the back. “You have exquisite taste in clothing,” she said, trying to put her fellow Reachwoman at ease.

            “It’s not mine,” she admitted with another flush. “Endarie and Taarie at Radiant Raiment chose them for me.”

            They sat down at the table and the servants began to serve. “I’ve heard of them. Would you recommend them for a new wardrobe?”

            Gytha barked in self-deprecating amusement. “If they can make _me_ fit for the court, my Jarl, they’ll make _you_ a goddess.”

            “I must agree that despite her attitude, Endarie knows her business,” Bryling agreed. “Her main problem is attracting customers. Few appreciate the subtleties of Altmer tailoring in a northern climate.”

            “Well, I’m converted,” Elisif said firmly. “I need a new wardrobe anyway.”

            “Be careful,” Bryling warned. “Ulfric will claim you’re being luxurious in a time of famine.”

            “Yes, and Ulfric lives so _very_ poorly,” Gytha observed sourly. “Have you been to Windhelm? The place is falling apart and he’s buying fancy swords done up in the old Nord style.”

            “I only need a few dresses,” Elisif said quietly. So Gytha had been to Windhelm? How much of Skyrim had she seen and how much could help Elisif understand her husband’s land?

            “Use a tax credit,” Falk advised. “That will leave coin for necessities.”

            “I will,” Elisif assured him before turning towards Gytha. “I’ve never been east of Whiterun. What are the Old Holds like?”

            “Windhelm’s going to explode sooner or later. The Nords hate everyone while the Dunmer and the Argonians hate each other,” Gytha responded after a neat bite of venison. “Riften is rotten and poor. Even the Thieves’ Guild is a bit seedy lately. I never really stayed in Winterhold or Dawnstar long enough to have an opinion.”

            “It matches with the intelligence Tullius shared with us,” Falk confirmed. “Truth be told, I’m now worried about Wolfskull Cave.”

            “The General won’t spare troops,” Elisif sighed. “And we don’t have enough coin in the treasury to hire the Companions.”

            Falk tapped his chin. “Gytha, you’ve actually been there. Would you go back to do some scouting?”

            Gytha nearly choked on her venison. “Not on my bloody own!”

            “Belrand,” Bryling suggested. “Experienced sellsword with some Conjuration skills of his own.”

            “Sure,” Gytha said. “I’ll just pull the coin from my arse.”

            “I’ll cover half his fee,” Bryling promised. “We don’t need a nest of conjurers in Haafingar and security _is_ part of my job.”

            “Thanks,” Gytha said unhappily. “I’d prefer a squad of soldiers but if they can’t be spared…”

            “Not at the moment,” Falk said with a sigh. “Tullius has requisitioned everything but our underwear.”

            “Give him a few months and he’ll be asking for that too,” Bryling said sourly. “We need to make it clear that he’s cutting into the winter supplies.”

            “I’ll see what I can do.” Falk finished his meal. “Do you mind if I walk you home? We need to go over the ore tallies from Stonehills.”

            Bryling nodded. “Of course.”

            Gytha rolled her leaf-green eyes and Elisif almost followed suit. Her Steward and the Thane weren’t subtle. “Then you’re dismissed at your leisure with my gratitude.”

            The duo made their farewells with almost indecent haste. Sybille had gone to her laboratory. Elisif didn’t ask what the court mage did with prisoners from the dungeon. Some things were better not known.

            Gytha finished the snowberries in cream with a satisfied sigh, licking her fingers until Elisif caught her. Then she used the napkin with a flush. “Sorry,” she said. “This is the best meal I’ve had in a long time.”

            “It should have been better,” Elisif sighed. “I know Haafingar needs to support the Legion, but Tullius is treating us like his personal larder.”

            “Ulfric’s stripped his people bare,” Gytha said with a shrug. “I guess it’s what armies do.”

            “The Legion Generals of High Rock would be nailed to crosses if they tried such things,” Elisif said firmly. “I trust the General in matters of warfare, but I don’t like being ignored.”

            Gytha tilted her head. “Do the Penitus Oculatus rank him? There’s a bunch in Dragon Bridge.”

            Elisif counted to ten in the Reach-tongue to throttle down her anger. Between her youth and her pregnancy, Tullius and the Thanes were prone to treating her like a fool. She knew politics. If Torygg hadn’t died, she would be helping him end this war by negotiating with the Jarls this very minute.

            “Could you carry a message to them requesting their commander’s presence in Solitude?” she asked. “I know we’ve put a lot on you since you’ve arrived but… Gytha, you’re the only one in this damned court without an axe to grind.”

            “Wolfskull’s not that far away. I can do it on the way.” Gytha rubbed the back of her neck. “I’m sorry about Torygg.”

            “I miss him every day,” Elisif admitted softly. “I wish I could have watched Roggvir’s execution, but Falk said it would be undignified of me to go.”

            “Well, his head rolled like a wheel of cheese,” Gytha said sympathetically. “I’d hate to piss off your headsman.”

            Elisif smiled thinly. “He’ll get a workout by the time I’m through.”

            Gytha winced. “If you kill everyone, I guess Solitude will live up to its name, because you’ll be the only one in it.”

            Elisif glanced away. “You’re right. I just…”

            “I know. You’re angry and you can’t do shit because everyone’s got the power but you.” Gytha shrugged with studied nonchalance. “Story of my life.”

            “You understand,” Elisif said simply. She was beginning to get a picture of Gytha now. Noble born, or near enough, and dispossessed by the Stormcloaks while young enough to have few memories of her family. Most likely raised in Honorhall Orphanage, judging by that southern drawl and her rough manners, and probably an itinerant sellsword or something like that.

            “Yeah. Having the Old Holders look down on you for being a Reach brat…” Gytha shrugged again. “I’ll help you as I can.”

            _And I will restore you to the state rightfully yours,_ Elisif promised silently. “Thank you,” she said aloud.


	2. Queen of the Dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, misogyny and the desecration of corpses. Fleshing out Taarie and Endarie’s background.

 

Gytha received a decent-sized bag of coins from Taarie and Endarie on news Elisif would be buying clothing from them, even with a tax credit. “Thank you,” the former said sincerely. “I trust your own fortunes have improved?”

            “That depends on your definition of ‘improved’,” Gytha said with a sigh. “There’s rumours of conjurers in Wolfskull Cave and I get to investigate them because I saw the lights.”

            “Wolfskull Cave?” Endarie asked, folding a red silk shirt. “If I read _The Wolf Queen_ right, that’s where Potema did her necromancy.”

            Taarie nodded in confirmation. “Indeed. Before you go, you should speak to Styrr at the Hall of the Dead. It’s his duty to lay the undead to rest.”

            That wasn’t something Gytha had considered. “I was told to hire a sellsword named Belrand.”

            “I’ve heard of him,” Endarie said. “Reasonable reputation, reasonable rates. Most sellswords in Skyrim charge about five hundred septims for bodyguard duties.”

            “Five hundred?” Gytha asked, aghast. “A farmhand doesn’t earn that in a year.”

            “I’m told that every freelance sellsword must post a bond with the Jarl’s Steward to cover funeral and inheritance expenses,” Endarie explained. “I honestly don’t know why they don’t just open the Fighters’ Guild up here.”

            “Probably because the Companions don’t like competition,” Taarie pointed out. “They pretend to be more than sellswords.”

            Gytha sighed. “If I’ve ever seen five hundred septims in my life, it was in cabbage form.”

            “Adventurers pick up coin rather quickly… If they survive,” Endarie said cheerfully. “Do you know how many I get in here looking for something flash to impress a local tart with?”

            “Let me guess,” Gytha said dryly. “They can’t afford your prices.”

            “I have to maintain _some_ standards,” the Altmer retorted as dryly. “So, you’ve actually seen Elisif up close. Any ideas on what would suit her?”

            “Loose and long. She’s Sunset-Reach blood, so knotwork would go well, and I’d say blue with flashes of red,” Gytha said.

            “Hmm…” Endarie pursed her lips. “Hidden fur lining. Beastly cold here.”

            “Better than Alinor,” Taarie said quietly.

            “Anything’s better than Alinor,” her sister agreed grimly. Then she shook her head. “I appreciate the help, Gytha. I wish you the best of luck at Wolfskull Cave.”

            “Thanks,” Gytha said wryly. “I might just need it.”

…

Belrand was a balding man with long grey hair at the back whose body was still muscular despite his gnarled, slightly swollen hands. He accepted the coin Gytha gave him with a cheerful nod and scratched his chin. “What’s your preferred fighting style?” he asked.

            “Me? Hide,” Gytha admitted wryly. “I have a little Destruction magic and know how to use a sling. I… sort of got stuck with this because no one else has been near Wolfskull Cave.”

            The sellsword nodded easily. “Light armour and hatchet would be best for you. Sling’s an underestimated weapon. And never underestimate stealth. We’re more interested in staying alive and getting the job done than glory. Glory’s for the bloody Companions.”

            Gytha looked over her shoulder at the mercenary as they headed towards the blacksmith. “You don’t like the Companions?”

            “They do what I do for a living but have the balls to charge twice the rates and claim to be better than me,” Belrand said bluntly. “Individually, they might be better fighters, but you rarely see a Companion older than forty. Kodlak and Skjor are exceptions, not the rule. Me? I’m fifty-two and this is my last job. I’m heading back to the Rift after this and buying a farm.”

            “Here’s to hoping the loot’s good then,” Gytha replied.

            “Agreed.”

            The haggling with Beirand produced a set of studded hide armour, pouch of lead shot and a steel hatchet. Gytha looked at her bare scrawny arms and legs with a sense of despair. Some heroic adventurer she looked like.

            “Bit thin but good muscle,” Beirand noted professionally. “Speed and stealth will serve you better than heavy armour against necromancers.”

            “I know that much,” Gytha said with a sigh. “Thanks for the help.”

            Beirand chuckled. “Thank Jarl Elisif. I’m getting some tax credit for this.”

            At least someone was getting something out of this… Gytha sighed and nodded. She was stuck in this job. Hopefully it was only a couple necromancers and not an entire coven.

…

It was an entire coven and worse. The bastards were trying to raise the evil Wolf-Queen of Solitude. Gytha cursed long and low in Reach-tongue before ghosting back to Belrand. “We have to somehow end this,” she told the sellsword. “It’s worse than we thought.”

            She told him and the sellsword cursed softly himself before nodding. “We be quiet for as long as possible,” he said. “Then a hard fast rush.”

            Gytha nodded. “Let’s do this.”

            Styrr from the Temple of Arkay had blessed her sling bullets, which led to the skeletons and draugr disintegrating after one or two hits, but the necromancers proved to be of sterner stuff. She left those to Belrand and his ghost wolf for the most part. The air tasted of ozone, mould and death.

            They climbed up through the hidden citadel where a group of necromancers stood in the heart of a purple-black vortex. “Summoned with words, bound by blood,” intoned the corpse-raiders.

            “Fools, you don’t have the strength to bind me!” announced a haughty female ghost.

            “Fuck.” Belrand’s curse was pungent. “Fuck stealth. We need to end this!”

            He was the professional. Gytha loaded another lead bullet into her sling and began to spin it.

            They burst onto the tower-top and Gytha released the bullet at the oldest one, who looked like she was leading the ritual. It caved in her head and she collapsed. Belrand roared and unleashed his wolf… which was banished by a smirking Dunmer. It got ugly and messy after that, Gytha screaming her throat raw out of fear and anger. The necromancers made the mistake of using frost magic. On Nords. One of whom was a Reacher so she had a bit of the Breton resistance to sorcery.

            They won… but then Belrand fell over, a dagger in his back, as Potema declared she would not be bound. The ritual master began to rise, a smirk on her ruined face, and Gytha emptied her pouch of lead bullets into her hand before tossing them at the draugr-zombie-whatever the fact it was. It flinched away from the blessed lead and she closed in with the steel hatchet, hacking at the undead until it was so many pieces.

            “Good… job,” Belrand rasped. “Saved Haafingar. Not the farm, but good way to…”

            His voice faded away and Gytha cried. If this was the life of a hero, then being a hero sucked.

…

Elisif laid septims on Belrand’s eyes before Gytha let the pyre. The news that a coven of necromancers tried to raise Potema was kept mostly under wraps by Falk after Gytha and Varnius brought in the man’s corpse. Belrand was given a small hero’s funeral and despite her steward’s advice, Elisif attended to pay him hero’s honours. It was just her and Gytha because Bryling left after paying her respects.

            “I didn’t get to talk to the Penitus Oculatus,” Gytha confessed softly.

            “Laying Belrand to rest took precedence,” Elisif told her. “Potema herself…”

            The Jarl allowed herself a small shudder. “You’ll be going through Dragon Bridge again if you’re willing to do another task for me. I don’t _think_ it’s dangerous… but we didn’t think Potema would be resurrected in Wolfskull Cave either.”

            “What _now_?” Gytha asked with some asperity. “If it involves a dragon, I can tell you right now to fuck off, Jarl or not.”

            Elisif was startled into a laugh. “I need you to deliver Torygg’s horn to… well, a Shrine of Talos. It’s not my custom, but it was his, and I want to honour him.”

            “…Can I have the dragon?” Gytha asked in all seriousness. “It will just eat me. The Thalmor will torture me and use my soul to warm Elenwen’s black cold heart.”

            “I need you to deliver a message,” Elisif whispered, feeling disgusted with herself at using a good man’s funeral for political ploys. “To Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun.”

            Gytha’s green eyes narrowed. “Why me, Jarl Elisif?”

            “Because you’re the only one I can trust and spare,” the Jarl admitted simply. “I’m pregnant and alone, Gytha. I have one uncertain ally in the court and no friends. General Tullius wants me to be a puppet, as do many members of the court. For Torygg’s sake, I need to be a leader.”

            “And you need someone – like a vagrant famous across half of fucking Skyrim for wearing shoes woven from birch bark in winter – to go deliver messages for you,” Gytha said flatly.

            Elisif met her gaze evenly. “Just because the Stormcloaks made you a vagrant doesn’t mean you are one, Gytha. If you’re a known… traveller… it won’t arouse as much suspicion, especially if you become famous as an adventurer.”

            She gestured in the direction of the Blue Palace. “I have sycophants and would-be puppet masters in there. I need someone who’s lived among the churls and travelled across Skyrim, someone who’s trustworthy. That’s you, I believe. You could have refused-“

            “-A host has the right to ask a favour of a guest if a gift isn’t given,” Gytha interrupted. “That’s old law. I know that much.”

            “I know,” Elisif said gently. “You could have still refused and only us two known. I would have understood. I know it was just dumped on you.”

            “And a good man wanting to settle down on a farm died to a handful of necromancers,” Gytha said flatly.

            “Yes. I can’t promise things won’t be dangerous,” Elisif agreed. “But me and thee have the same enemies – the Stormcloaks. You’ve seen Windhelm. Imagine that kind of distrust, hatred and poverty across Skyrim.”

            “Yes, and the Legion will bring sunshine and bunny rabbits instead,” Gytha said sardonically. “From the bottom, boots like the same.”

            “The Legion’s far from perfect,” Elisif pointed out. “But the Empire lets everyone generally live in peace. Everyone’s taxed equally. And united, we can stand together against any enemy.”

            Gytha’s scarred features were wary. “And you think I can make this fairy tale Skyrim come about?”

            “Me and thee,” Elisif said simply.

            Finally, the East-Reacher shrugged. “What the hell. At least I’ll get a regular meal.”

            Impulsively, Elisif embraced her. “Thank you! You’ve already helped me unknowingly. Imagine what we can do once you know what’s going on.”

            “Probably get blood-eagled as a spy in Windhelm,” Gytha said with an awkward hug back. “Ah well, have to admit, putting one in Ulfric’s eye…”

            “We’ll be putting his head on a spike,” Elisif promised. “But before that, let’s get you some food and rest. Tomorrow’s task to tomorrow.”


	3. Social Calls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Characters from the Aureliiverse exist in this world but only in passing. Trigger warning for fantastic racism and mentions of death.

 

Torygg’s horn had a rolled parchment in it. Just past the Solitude part of the guard patrols, Gytha unwound it and puzzled her way through the flowery script. Then she burned it as instructed. And used rude words.

            Dragon Bridge was no different in the predawn light. A few guards looked sideways at her while Azzada Lylvieve eyed her with some surprise. “Taken up adventuring?” he asked her.

            “Something like that,” Gytha said. He’d been the one to give her the second-hand clothing she’d worn when leaving here. “If you want a better price for your wheat and cabbages, head up to the tradesman’s entrance at the Blue Palace. You’re the best farmer in Haafingar and once they see your produce…”

            Azzada rubbed his chin. “It’s worth a try. Jala pays shit. I know she’s barely breaking even herself but…”

            “Exactly.” Gytha smiled at him. “You did me a kindness. I hope mine helps you.”

            “It’s mostly the tariffs,” Azzada sighed. “Vittoria Vici is charging ridiculous prices.”

            “I heard about that.” Another thing to mention to Elisif. “Good luck.”

            “You too. I’m sure you’ll be famous in no time.” Azzada returned the smile and went back to work.

            The Penitus Oculatus outpost was in the cottage nearest the bridge and the same handsome, dark-haired man she remembered Faida flirting with was sitting on the bench outside, peeling an apple. Didn’t Imperials know the best bit was in the peel?

“Commander Maro?” Gytha said as she climbed the stairs.

“Just Gaius,” the young man said in a velvet rasp. “My father’s Commander Maro. Who are you and why do you need to speak to him?”

“My name’s Gytha and I’ve been ordered-“ She produced a folded parchment sealed with the Wolf of Solitude, the ostensible reason for her trip through Dragon Bridge, and showed it to him. “To deliver a personal message from Jarl Elisif the Fair to Commander Maro of the Penitus Oculatus.”

Gaius rose to his feet. “I’ll get him.”

Commander Maro was a bearded older version of Gaius who let his grey-threaded hair grow out a bit from the Legion crop. He read the parchment in one glance, mouth tightening in what might be amusement. “Does General Tullius know about this personal invitation to court?” he asked with an arched eyebrow.

“General Tullius was so caught up in planning something he forgot to tell the rightful High Queen of Skyrim you were in town, sir,” Gytha observed dryly. “Jarl Elisif didn’t want to distract him with petty social matters.”

Gaius snorted. “As a courtier, Tullius makes an excellent General.”

Maro flashed his son a reproving glance. “He’s saved the Empire numerous times, Gaius. Yes, he’s a bit rough. But sometimes we need the sandstone block to smooth things out.”

“Yes, Father.” Gaius flushed a little.

“As for this…” His lips pursed. “I’ll head up there myself. I need to check security anyways, so I’ll show up unannounced.”

“Jarl Elisif accepts and understands,” Gytha replied. “If you want to save yourself the walk, catch a ride with Azzada. I know security’s important and all but the Company’s charging ridiculous tariffs. Two thousand for a cargo of spices to make spiced wine, if you can believe that. I hate to see what they’d charge for cabbages and wheat…”

Maro sighed. “Prices have gone up because Ulfric’s made some kind of alliance with the pirates on the Sea of Ghosts to harry our shipping, even in High Rock waters. But that is excessive.”

Gytha echoed his sigh. “I’m going East. I could take a look.”

“That’s very patriotic of you,” Maro said with an arched eyebrow.

“I’m a Reacher Nord,” Gytha said bluntly. “I lost my parents to Stormcloaks.”

“Mutual enemy and the same region, more or less, as Elisif.” Maro stroked his bearded chin and nodded. “I see why she chose you as an agent.”

“That helped, but I’m known as a… traveller,” Gytha admitted. “It won’t look so odd if I’ve decided to become a sellsword.”

“We noticed you,” Gaius said simply. “It’s good to see my old friend’s widow’s getting past her grief.”

“Indeed.” Maro nodded to his son. “Do you need a horse and supplies?”

“I can live off the land if I have to, but some cheese, bread and dried meat would be appreciated if you can spare it,” Gytha said carefully. “As for a horse, no. I’m not well-armoured enough to be considered too dangerous to attack and it’s easier to cross country on foot.”

“She’s a natural,” Gaius noted. He went into the cottage and exited soon with a half-wheel of eidar cheese, a half-dozen rounds of flatbread and a nice hunk of ham. “Is this enough?”

“It’s appreciated,” Gytha said with a smile. Maybe being an agent, whatever that was, had more benefits than just regular feeding.

“Don’t go into Windhelm if you’re tracking those pirates,” Maro warned. “I’m told Dawnstar’s the base and someone like you should fit in there.”

Gytha snorted. “Palers are even more racist than Eastmarchers and their Jarl’s an idiot.”

“Well… That may be soon to change.” Maro shook his head. “I’ll attend to Jarl Elisif sooner rather than later. She’s the rightful High Queen and deserves to be briefed on important matters.”

“Yeah,” Gytha agreed. Was she doing okay at this spy stuff?

“Anything you bring from the East would help us,” Maro continued. “Ulfric’s shut down the shipping lanes and it’s hard to find Nords with a knack for covert operations like yourself.”

“Uh, thanks.” Gytha rubbed the back of her neck. “If there’s nothing else you need, I better get going. Long walk to the Old Holds.”

“That it is.” Maro inclined his head. “Akatosh watch over you, Gytha.”

“I hope someone does,” she muttered as she walked away.

…

“Your Grace.”

            The familiar tones brought a warm smile to Elisif’s mouth as Commander Gaius Maro the Elder walked into the throne room of the Blue Palace. He wore his winter dress uniform, scarlet velvet tunic under polished leather-and-corundum armour embossed with the gilded Imperial dragon, and carried himself like a man ten years younger than his actual forty-two. In his hand was the message she’d sent off with Gytha not four hours ago. Elisif was a little surprised that her agent moved so fast and got Maro to come so soon.

            She rose from the small table to the side where a light morning snack was laid out and inclined her head to Maro as an equal. He was the commander of the Penitus Oculatus and Titus Mede’s only living son, albeit on the wrong side of the blankets. His son or daughter had a good chance of being the next ruler of the Empire. So a little flattery never went wrong with him.

            His lips twitched in amusement. He was a good fighter but better courtier, so he knew that she was flattering him, and she knew that he did.

            “Welcome to Solitude,” Elisif said warmly. “How are you finding Skyrim, Commander Maro?”

            “Cold. And my Nord agents tell me this is summer.” Maro chuckled ruefully. “I see the fairest flower of Evermore is blooming well in Skyrim.”

            Elisif’s hands dropped to cradle her pregnant belly. “Even the fairest flower has thorns, Commander.”

            He nodded. “I see. I met one of them this morning.”

            Elisif nodded in the direction of her solar. “I will order some refreshments, Commander. I suspect you’re here for more than a social call.”

            Maro remained silent until a bigger breakfast was delivered to the solar by Ildi. It was a pleasant room decorated in Evermore style, intricate interlace with High Rock gilding. Elisif removed her copper crown and set it aside, rubbing her temples once the servant was gone. “Gytha made it? Praise Akatosh.”

            “She’s got good instincts, Elisif,” Maro said calmly. “I don’t know what she’s doing in the East, but I did ask her to go up north and find out what she could involving the pirates preying on our shipping lanes after she said she’d look into it. I apologise for the high-handedness, but my agents are either dead or behind enemy lines and unable to escape.”

            Elisif blanched involuntarily. “I haven’t been told about this.”

            Maro’s mouth tightened. “Tullius likely remembers you as the pretty young girl who danced attendance on the Empress. I respect the man, but he’s very… focused. And not a courtier.”

            “He lives up to his nickname,” Elisif agreed with a weakly wry smile. “But the Old Holds are dangerous.”

            “And I saw your Gytha as a vagrant about three or four days ago in Dragon Bridge,” Maro said quietly. “She implied she knows the Old Holds well.”

            Elisif met his dark gaze. “Just because Gytha was disinherited and orphaned by the Stormcloaks, it doesn’t make her a vagrant, Maro. I suspect her parents were franklins – landowners – at the very least. Nobility is flexible in Skyrim, and more so in traditional Reach culture.”

            “I apologise,” he said quietly. “I meant that her experience as a traveller who knows how to live off the land, combined with a real talent for covert operations, will keep her alive where my people have died.”

            “Ulfric’s people are that good?” Elisif asked in dismay. How much had Tullius kept from her?

            “He’s got Legion veterans and some talented amateurs,” Maro confirmed. “And they have a hometown advantage.”

            Elisif took a deep breath. “I have to trust Gytha knows what she’s doing. I need to start taking the power back from the people who picked it up after Torygg’s death.”

            Maro nodded. “I’ll lean on my cousin Vittoria about the tariffs. Your agent told me that they were excessive and causing resentment.”

            “Define excessive.”

            “Two thousand septims for a cargo of spices for mulled wine.”

            “That’s not excessive, that’s outright extortion,” Elisif said flatly. “I know Vittoria’s marrying that Stormcloak partner of Maven Black-Briar’s soon, but…”

            “Yes.” Maro sighed. “If your Gytha can get some information on those damned pirates, I can sic Adelaisa Vendicci onto them.”

            “The Emperor’s pulling out all the cards, isn’t he?” Elisif said.

            “Yes.” Maro sighed. “If Tullius doesn’t put Ulfric down in the next moon, the Imperial First… and the Emperor… will be coming to Skyrim personally.”

            “If we lose Skyrim, the Empire’s back is broken,” Elisif agreed grimly. “We might as well let the Aldmeri Dominion roll right in.”

            “We technically have,” Maro said sourly. Then he shook his head. “We need to break Ulfric and soon.”

            “I know that better than you,” Elisif said bitterly. “He murdered Torygg in front of me. Killed him while Torygg held a butterknife, because he knew he could never beat Ulfric in a fight and couldn’t refuse the challenge by Nord law.”

            Maro blinked. “Why didn’t Torygg just have Ulfric cut down like the dog he is?”

            “Because one of Ulfric’s more rabid commanders would keep the fight going and they’d have a moral martyr on their side,” Elisif said sadly. “That’s how Bryling explained it. By letting Ulfric kill him, Torygg took away any moral justification for the duel.”

            “Moral victory.” The commander sighed again. “That… takes a special kind of courage, Elisif.”

            “They keep on telling me he’s in Sovngarde,” she said sadly. “Torygg would hate that place.”

            She rubbed her nose. “I have to fight. I need Tullius to keep me briefed. I have to prove to Skyrim I can rule in my own right, not be the puppet of the Empire.”

            Maro nodded. “If your Gytha can bring me the information I need and we can solve a problem or two without the Legion, I’ll back you all the way.”

            Elisif threw Maro a dazzling smile while hoping Gytha wouldn’t hate her too much for giving her even more dangerous work. “I would appreciate that, Commander Maro.”


	4. Rise in the East

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Time to get back to this story.

 

In the end, Gytha decided to backtrack to Hjaalmarch, cut across the southern part of the Pale, and approach the Talos shrine in the pass that led to the northern part of Whiterun Hold. It was still and peaceful there, fresh offerings left (including a bag of septims she unabashedly stole) and the ivory horn rested neatly at the foot of the statue.

            “Aha! Another Talos worshipper!” Just what she did _not_ want to hear: the haughty tones of a Thalmor.

            Gytha jumped and rolled to the side as an ice spike shattered against the stone of the statue. She grabbed her sling and some lead shot, loading and swinging in one smooth motion, and the wizard’s forehead collapsed from the force of the bullet. The swordsman stopped in shock. It was his first and last mistake because a lead bullet to the eye brought him to earth and her steel hatchet did the rest.

            She vomited the meals of the past few days and then ate snow to settle her stomach. Gods but she hated killing. It didn’t stop her looting the corpses though before pressing east towards Windhelm.

            Aside from various wild animals, there was no trouble on the high road to Windhelm, and she arrived on the docks in the early hours of dawn. The East Empire Trade Company had an office here, and when the Imperial factor arrived, she approached him. “Is there any work to be had?” she asked, trying to sound like a seasoned mercenary.

            The factor sighed. “Unless you can figure out who’s behind the damned pirates, I’m afraid not.”

            Gytha looked around and only seeing a drunk Argonian sprawled about a dozen yards away, she whispered, “That’s why I’m here. Maro sent me.”

            The Imperial blinked and got her inside his office.

            “It’s worse than you think,” he reported as he went around, lighting lamps. “The Shatter-Shields set up everything. I just don’t know how. If you could get their Dunmer factor’s journal – she’s an obsessive diarist – it would help greatly.”

            “I’ll try the office now,” Gytha promised. “Hang in there.”

            Now, Gytha was mostly honest, but sometimes she needed to pick locks for various reasons – like an unexpected cache of goods or an abandoned chest. Torbjorn Shatter-Shield was a cheapskate and that extended to his locks. She was inside before the guard came around on his patrols and it didn’t take too long to find the journal. She memorised the name of the pirate contact and then slipped back outside just as the guard passed by once more.

            She openly entered the office. “I have a name. Stig. He’s up at Dawnstar.”

            “Well, just don’t stand there,” the Imperial factor said. “Get up there and find out who’s behind everything.”

            Gytha dozed on the fisher boat she caught up to Dawnstar. It wasn’t as good as a real sleep but it’d have to do. To think she’d wound up here because of fancy clothing! Gods help her if she had to be a real spy.

            Stig was a disgusting drunk but a few drinks got him boasting about how Haldyn would win the war for Skyrim. Gytha made the appropriate noises about wanting to join for the gold (she couldn’t have pulled off a line about glory convincingly) and he directed her to Japhet’s Folly, wherever that was. She was glad to quit the man’s company and went to the ferry.

            Another day-long ride back to Windhelm and when she arrived, there was a sleek Cyrod-built ship in the harbour. When she entered the Company offices once more, there was a heavy-shouldered blonde Imperial woman in Legion armour. “Are you insane?” Gytha asked her. “Ulfric’s not half a mile away and you’re wearing that. Why don’t you just march up to the Palace of the Kings singing the Legion hymns? It’ll be less obvious you’re with the Empire that way.”

            “So you must be Maro’s agent,” the woman said dryly. “You’d be surprised how many old sets of Legion armour are around. Mine has no insignia as I’m with the merchant marine… officially.”

            “Windhelm’s a nervy place,” Gytha replied.

            “So I hear. How’d the trip to Dawnstar go?” The factor was acquiescing to this woman.

            “My source told me that a battlemage named Haldyn is leading the pirates under the direction of Torbjorn Shatter-Shield. They’re operating out of somewhere named Japhet’s Folly.”

            The not-Legionnaire smacked her fist into her open palm. “I know where exactly that is. Orthus, I’ll be borrowing Maro’s agent here. Haldyn’s known for his command of sea-magic and that means we’ll need to send in someone to eliminate him.”

            “I’m actually Elisif’s,” she corrected. “I’m on temporary loan to the Penitus Oculatus. I just used Maro’s name to save arguments.”

            “Is that so? Well, I’ll make sure the Emperor knows where credit is due. I’m Adelaisa Vendicci, Admiral of the Empire’s Merchant-Marine.”

            Gytha awkwardly bowed. You bowed to admirals, right?

            Adelaisa grinned. “Don’t worry about it. Rank means nothing on a ship. Ready to go? It’s going to take a day to get to where we need to go.”

            Gytha nodded with a sigh. “Let’s go.”

…

_“As I suspected, bastard’s raised mists and we can’t fire the catapults because of the moisture in the air. So it’s your show now, Gytha. Good luck and Akatosh with you.”_

            That was how Gytha wound up sneaking past horkers, braining two drunk guards at this back entrance, and walking upstairs to Haldyn’s openly by invoking Stig Salt-Plank’s name. This was a bad idea but the rest were worse.

            Haldyn was a plain-faced Redguard. “What is it?” he snapped. “Stig’s nowhere to be found.”

            “Yeah. He spilt his guts to an agent of Adelaisa Vendicci’s and pissed off to Hammerfell when he sobered up,” Gytha replied truthfully. “Suvaris Atheron sent me here to warn you.”

            “You’re a bit late. She’s already here,” Haldyn said as he turned away. “When I’m done with her, you can go back and tell Suvaris the warning’s appreciated though.”

            Gytha had learned at Wolfskull Cave that magic took a lot of concentration. So she waited for Haldyn to be utterly absorbed in his spellcraft before she brained him with her steel hatchet. He had a nice black wolfskin cloak that she decided to keep, wrapping herself in its thick folks. Then it was bolt downstairs past shocked pirates and get outside.

            Outside contained boulders. On fire. Falling from the sky. Gytha ran helter-skelter back to Adelaisa’s ship as Legionnaires made short work of the pirates. The Admiral wasn’t wasting time in grinding Ulfric’s pirate army into mincemeat.

            “Good job,” Adelaisa said, slapping her on the back with one meaty paw. “Sit down and have a drink. We’ll be returning to Windhelm soon.”

            They did return in due time and Orthus was ecstatic. “You’ve saved us,” he told the two women enthusiastically.

            “Maybe this will get Vittoria to lower those damn tariffs,” Gytha said. “She’s bleeding Solitude’s merchants dry of what Tullius has left them, which is fuck all, begging pardon for the language.”

            “Tullius isn’t called the Imperial Nutcracker for nothing,” Adelaisa said softly. “He’s fit for and focused on that one purpose. That’s the level of desperation Ulfric has brought us to.”

            The Admiral shook her head. “But that’s above our paygrade and the removal of those pirates will make our lives much easier. I have to report to Vittoria in Solitude regardless; want to catch a ride home with me?”

            “I’d appreciate it,” Gytha said fervently. “Windhelm sickens me to the core.”

…

“Is there a reason for you summoning me and then making me wait for an hour, Jarl Elisif?”

            Tullius wasn’t happy but then, neither was Elisif. “I apologise, General Tullius. I was busy meeting with Commander Maro and Admiral Vendicci concerning the recent defeat of the pirates sponsored by Ulfric. I wasn’t expecting you to answer so promptly.”

            The stocky West Weald man blinked. “Defeat? I know nothing about this. Why wasn’t I informed?”

            “You’ll have to blame me,” Adelaisa said. “Maro borrowed one of Elisif’s people to investigate the pirate problem, she uncovered relevant information, and I had to act quickly before Haldyn could react. We couldn’t rely on a courier from Windhelm to Solitude, not in the short timespan I had.”

            Gytha, wrapped in a nice black fur cloak, flushed. Elisif wondered if she realised just how much she achieved in five days.

            “I’d heard something about a Reach-woman running some errands for you,” Tullius said, eyeing the fine-boned Nord curiously.

            “She’s already prevented the resurrection of Potema and was instrumental in stopping Haldyn’s pirates,” Elisif said pointedly. “Gytha is my agent and you’ll treat her with the appropriate respect, General.”

            “If Elisif didn’t want her, I’d take her,” Maro said cheerfully. “In fact, Elisif, I may need to borrow her again. It’s a matter of security.”

            “Can it wait?” Elisif asked him. “There’s a more immediate problem Falk and I need her to solve.”

            “If it can be done in a few days, yes,” Maro replied. “But I might have the chance to strike at the Dark Brotherhood and after the miracles your wolf has pulled, I’d be foolish not to ask for her assistance.”

            Gytha was now bone-pale. “I wouldn’t go after the Dark Brotherhood unless I had the Companions of Jorrvaskr at my back, and do you know how much they cost?”

            “I’ll sell whatever jewellery I have to make it happen,” Elisif promised. “Set everything in motion, Maro. Akatosh willing, Gytha will be done in two or three days.”

            The Commander bowed and left Elisif’s solar. Adelaisa saluted and followed suit. Tullius watched them leave before glancing at the Jarl. “Maybe you’re not the empty-headed ninny everyone thinks you are.”

            “When I am High Queen, people will be surprised,” Elisif said. “Keep me informed, General. Neither of us can do our jobs if we’re kept ignorant.”

            Tullius nodded curtly and walked out. Finally, she, Gytha and Falk were alone.

            “What now?” the scar-faced woman asked with a sigh.

            “It’s about Wolfskull Cave. Strange things are happening in Potema’s crypt,” Falk said without preamble. “Before you ask ‘why you’, Styrr tells me that Potema wasn’t entirely banished, and because you were there, you’re connected. Only you can stop her.”

            “From coven of necromancers to pirate king to the Wolf Queen,” Gytha said flatly. “Oh, and then the Brotherhood. You lot sure don’t ask much, do you?”

            Elisif sighed. “I don’t have anyone else I can spare. At least it’s not a dragon.”

            “At this rate, Jarl Elisif, I’d prefer the dragon.” Gytha sighed. “I’ll do it. We don’t need Potema coming back.”

            Elisif smiled and Gytha flushed again. “Thank you. I promise, I will make all this up to you.”


	5. Darkness Defeated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for the death of a minor and corpse desecration. For those following my other story, I’ve taken down One-Two Beat temporarily because Calli North-Star’s still evolving as a character.

 

Potema’s crypt was as dank, dark and dangerous as Gytha feared. Even Styrr’s spell he claimed would drive away most undead did barely more than check the draugr for a few moments before she could hack them down with her hatchet. So she relied on her sling and blessed lead bullets, stealth and a lot of prayers. All the while, Potema taunted her about how she’d serve the Wolf Queen in death.

            Oh, and there were a few vampires. Wonderful.

            She eventually reached the sanctum where Potema was laired. The Wolf Queen sent wave after wave of draugr at her, culminating in the embalmed corpse of her husband and her own shade. By the end of the battle, it was all Gytha could do to collect the skull and stagger back through the catacombs to Styrr and the other priests at the Temple of All Gods, where it became their problem. After that, she don’t know what happened, because she fell into unconsciousness.

            Gytha woke up in the Blue Palace, one of the servants watching over her. Her limbs were swathed in bandages and someone had put her in a fine linen nightgown with a touch of lace. “My lady,” the servant said. “How are you feeling?”

            “Hungry,” Gytha mumbled. And it was true. Her stomach was a bottomless pit.

            “I’ll get some food,” the servant said before getting up and leaving the room.

            The food came but in the hands of Elisif, who carried the tray carefully. “You’re awake, thank the Eight,” the Jarl said. “It took all of Sybille’s skills to heal you.”

            “Then maybe you should thank Sybille and not the Eight,” Gytha pointed out as Elisif put the tray down.

            “Maybe.” Elisif sat down at the end of the bed. “Once again I ask the impossible and you achieve it.”

            “Is Potema banished?” Gytha asked, picking up a silver spoon and eating some of the scrambled eggs.

            “Yes. We haven’t made it public yet but… well, you staggering out of the catacombs covered in blood and carrying a skull drew some attention.” Elisif sighed. “They’re calling you the Black Wolf for that cloak of yours. I’m told you’re held in high esteem by several prominent citizens, including Taarie, Evette and Sorex. They speak well of you down in Dragon Bridge too.”

            Gytha rolled her eyes. “I had a lot of help and a lot more luck.”

            “You’ve done more for Solitude in the past week and a half than anyone else since before Torygg’s death,” Elisif said softly. “If you owned property, I could be justified in naming you Thane.”

            “Well, short of it raining septims, I’m not going to be able to afford a house in Solitude,” Gytha said after a mouthful of snowberry juice. “Unless a lean-to in the alley behind the Winking Skeever counts.”

            “It would for me. Falk might be harder to convince though,” Elisif said with a grin. “The only property for sale is Proudspire Manor. It’s oversized, grandiose and needs to be renovated. Falk told me the cost would be about forty thousand septims to return it to its former glory.”

            Gytha nearly snorted juice from her nose. Forty thousand septims? She could buy Hjaalmarch for that!

            Elisif’s smile was thin. “You’d be surprised how quickly money can accumulate in service to the Hold. Erikur and even Bryling manage to make a fair few septims and they mostly focus on trade.”

            “So, Maro’s still keen on me going after the Dark Brotherhood?” Gytha asked, changing the subject to something a little more probable.

            “Yes. He captured one of their members and got answers out of them. He wants to strike now before they realise and change the password to the door.” Elisif sighed. “I can buy you a few more days if you want.”

            Gytha finished her breakfast, shaking her head. “No. If you’ve managed to get that coin, I’ll hire the Companions. They do things for honour and glory, but gold gets their attention.”

            “I did. Vittoria was happy to assist me.” Elisif smiled thinly. “I was sent off to Torygg with a dragon’s hoard of jewellery. I sold some of the gaudier pieces.”

            “Then I’ll check in with Maro and travel to Whiterun,” Gytha said, throwing back the covers. “I’ve travelled in worse condition than this.”

            “Every day I fall a little deeper in debt to you,” Elisif said softly. “Come back safely, Gytha. You’re my only friend in the court.”

…

“You handle yourself well. You could make for a decent Shield-Sister.”

            Aela smiled approvingly at the Reacher Nord who helped bring down the giant plaguing Pelagia Farm. Small and thin, but with scar-seamed wiry limbs, she wore well-made leather armour and carried a fine steel hatchet underneath a magnificent black wolfskin cloak. The side braid into a ponytail was a little fancy but perhaps she had a vain streak. Her green eyes were lovely even if her fine-boned features were scarred.

            “You flatter me. I’m actually here to hire the Companions. All of them.” Her soprano was rough with the Rifter burr on the consonants and lilting on the vowels like a Reacher.

            “That won’t be cheap,” Aela said slowly.

            “I have two thousand septims and a letter from the Jarl of Solitude. Another three thousand will be payable from Commander Gaius Maro the Elder of the Penitus Oculatus.”

            “We don’t get involved in politics,” Farkas rumbled.

            “This… is complicated.” The agent took a deep breath. “My name is Gytha. I’m an agent of Jarl Elisif’s and I’ve been given the task of eliminating the Dark Brotherhood, once and for all.”

            Aela’s jaw dropped and even Farkas looked a little stunned. Ria’s eyes were narrowed thoughtfully.

            “Would you happen to be the one they call ‘Elisif’s Black Wolf’?” the Cyrod girl asked.

            “That wasn’t _my_ idea,” Gytha said sourly. “I did a few things for the Jarl and everyone’s tagged me with that ridiculous nickname.”

            “A _few_ things? My brother’s in Haafingar and he told me that you’ve banished Potema, assisted in ending the pirating troubles on the Sea of Ghosts that was plaguing Imperial shipping, and managed to get in and out of Windhelm without being caught. That’s more than ‘a few things’.”

            “Brother?” Gytha asked.

            “Gaius.” Ria turned to Aela. “I have to help with this. Not just for honour or the Empire, but because if the Dark Brotherhood decides to strike, my family will be high on the list.”

            Aela closed her mouth. “I’ll take you to Kodlak.”

            Ria happily filled the other two Companions on Gytha’s history as they walked back to Whiterun. Dispossessed by Ulfric Stormcloak during the Markarth Incident, spent several years as a vagrant, and quickly became Elisif’s right-hand woman after being asked to investigate Wolfskull Cave. Gytha simply said she had a lot of help and luck. Commendable, but her achievements were nonetheless impressive.

            Kodlak was upstairs for a change, sitting beside the firepit with Vilkas by his side. “A stranger comes to these halls,” the Harbinger noted. “What brings the black wolf to our doorstep?”

            “Is that name going to follow me everywhere?” Gytha asked sourly.

            “I don’t know,” Kodlak said. “I only knew you were coming.”

            That gave Aela some pause. The Harbingers had limited precognitive abilities when it came to dangers to Skyrim. “She wants to hire all of us on behalf of the Jarl of Solitude,” the Huntress told him. “Jarl Elisif wants the Dark Brotherhood destroyed.”

            “The Penitus Oculatus is helping foot the bill,” Gytha said quietly. “But we all agree, no matter our political affiliation, the Brotherhood needs to go.”

            “What kind of coin are we talking about?” Vilkas asked practically.

            “I have two thousand on me. Elisif sold some of her dower jewels for this. Commander Maro of the Penitus Oculatus will throw in another three thousand. Plus you can keep any loot from the job.” Gytha reached into her cloak and produced a hefty bag of coin that she poured onto the table. It was a mixture of High Rock, Hammerfell and Cyrod minted gold, the face of Titus Mede staring blankly at the ceiling.

            “Ria’s already volunteered,” Aela continued.

            “And Athis will want in. His grandparents were Morag Tong killed by Brotherhood assassins in the Third Era,” Farkas added.

            Vilkas sighed. “It’s a bit political… But the Dark Brotherhood is a blight on Skyrim. I vote aye.”

            “I vote with my brother,” Farkas said simply.

            “You know I would relish the challenge,” Aela said calmly.

            “Then if Skjor agrees, the job will be accepted.” Kodlak sighed and glanced at Gytha. “May I offer the hospitality of Jorrvaskr?”

            “Sure,” Gytha agreed.

            The Black Wolf was a quiet woman, preferring to observe instead of participate, and she nursed a single cup of mead all night by sipping now and then. Skjor returned and agreed readily to eliminating the Brotherhood, because of the renegade werewolf Arnbjorn’s presence among the assassins. Torvar and Njada were eager to share in the glory. The next few days would be interesting.

            Two days after her arrival, the Companions and Gytha set out for Falkreath, the doors of Jorrvaskr locked for the first time in twenty or thirty years. Only Tilma and Kodlak remained behind. It was a beautiful late summer day and the weather was mild. They would sing songs about this day in Sovngarde.

            They overnighted in Falkreath before going to the Sanctuary at dawn. “What is the music of life?” whispered the Black Door.

            “Silence, my brother,” Gytha said softly and clearly.

            “Welcome home.”

            Inside, the inhabitants were just stirring. Astrid and the Dunmer woman died quickly, but the wizard and Arnbjorn proved to be problems, the werewolf clawing half of Vilkas’ cheek off. The Redguard put up a reputable fight but the hardest kill was the vampire child; though she was the Demon Child of Wayrest, as Ria called her, she still had a child’s voice that pleaded. Gytha cast a Restoration spell that proved she was a vampire and it was the Black Wolf of Solitude who executed her.

            When it was done, Gytha sat down at their dinner table and buried her face in her hands, weeping. The Companions looked around at the carnage surrounding them, helped themselves to a few medicines to tend their worst wounds, and decided to take nothing else from this place.

            The Sanctuary burned behind them as they left for Jorrvaskr, not even stopping in Falkreath.

            “It’s for the best but… that wasn’t a battle, that was a massacre,” Gytha finally said.

            “We’ll donate what you’ve paid us to the Temple of Kynareth,” Skjor said soberly. “Keep the rest.”

            “We’ll see.” The Black Wolf sighed. “They won’t be killing anyone. It’s thin comfort but we saved a lot of lives.”

            “I know.” Skjor echoed her sigh. “I know.”

            They would sing songs about this day. But none of the Companions felt it was deserved.


	6. The Road to Helgen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for discussion of the death of a child.

 

Gytha’s return to Solitude should have been triumphant. But the execution of the Dark Brotherhood left a sour taste in her mouth. She’d done Tamriel a favour but… Babette’s pleas would haunt her for a long time, she suspected.

            It was a dismal day when she entered the gates, wrapped in the black wolfskin cloak. Winter was coming with a vengeance and even sheltered Solitude wasn’t immune to the snows. The civil war would be bogged down for the season, unless Ulfric found a way to march across the coast and-

            The reason for Ulfric’s hiring of a Redguard battlemage with a facility for weather magic made sudden sense and Gytha broke into a run, shoving past Girard and Jorn, the cloak streaming behind her. Weeks of food, rest and fighting had increased her stamina, if nothing else.

            She pushed past the startled guards and took the steps two at a time to where Elisif held court. Much to her surprise and relief, Commander Maro and Legate Primus Rikke were there. Gytha took a deep breath to calm herself as Elisif looked askance at her. No time for court manners.

            “I think I know why Ulfric sponsored those pirates,” she said tightly. “The ones led by Haldyn.”

            “Haldyn Storm-Weaver?” Rikke asked, eyes narrowed.

            “Yes, the one and same. Adelaisa and I dealt with him, but the damage may be done. I don’t know.” She took another deep breath. “I think Haldyn was freezing the ice off the coast so Ulfric’s men could march across it. I know it sounds crazy but-“

            “The Stormcloak initiation is to hunt down an ice wraith, as any Nord does on reaching adulthood,” Rikke interrupted. “A march across sea-ice would be the perfect tactic, because he holds most of the northern coast.”

            “He could cut across the harbour and surround Haafingar,” Gytha agreed. “Nords are naturally resistant to the cold…”

            “That would be unconventional, but playing to his people’s strengths,” Maro said slowly. “We need to bring this traitor to heel quickly, assuming the mission we gave you has been achieved?”

            “Yes. The Companions decided to donate their share to the Temple of Kynareth because… well… it wasn’t a fight, it was a massacre,” Gytha reported grimly. “You can tell the Vigilants the Demon Child of Wayrest is dead though.”

            “If you knew half of what Astrid did in her time, you’d feel less guilty about cutting them down like the scum they are,” Maro said quietly. “My compliments on your efficiency, Gytha.”

            Gytha shrugged. “I owe Elisif.”

            “More like I owe you,” the redhead said gently. It wasn’t her delicate features that made her beautiful, though they were pretty enough. It was her kindness and warmth that made her beautiful. “You’ve given unstintingly of your loyalty and strength to me, Gytha.”

            “Because you saved me from the streets.” Gytha shrugged again. “So, Ulfric?”

            “We have a plan to draw him out of Windhelm and into striking distance,” Rikke said calmly. “But we need some kind of bait.”

            “Maybe let out rumours a second force is coming to the Rift from Cheydinhal?” Maro suggested. “The Pale Pass is the best way to get to Skyrim from Cyrodiil, but there’s other ways through the Jeralls and southern Velothi Mountains.”

            “Ambarys Rendar and Suvaris Atheron,” Gytha said immediately. “One runs the Cornerclub in the Grey Quarter, the other is the Shatter-Shields’ factor. If Endarius or whatever his name is starts muttering about supplies for Legions from Cheydinhal, you bet your Cyrod arse the Dunmer and Argonians will be talking about it in an hour and Ulfric will have the news in about three or four at most.”

            “Orthus Endario,” Elisif said. “That’s the name of the East Empire Trade Company’s factor in Windhelm.”

            “I was a little busy to get his name during the Haldyn business,” Gytha said wryly.

            “I’ll get Vittoria onto it,” Maro said. “Maybe it’ll stop her talking about her bloody wedding for ten minutes.”

            “Maro,” Elisif said with amused fondness, “That’s a terrible thing to say about your cousin.”

            For some reason, Gytha felt a flash of envy at the tone in her voice. Then she told her heart to shut up. It made sense that Elisif would go after a Cyrod who obviously was related to the Emperor. All noblewomen had to secure their positions _somehow._

            “It’s true,” Maro said bluntly. “My Ria’s much more sensible than that.”

            “She’s joined the Companions, sir. They kill weird shit for glory,” Gytha said dryly. “Are you sure about that?”

            “Ria, at the very least, will inherit County Bruma,” Maro said quietly. “She needs to understand Nords and gain military experience in a relatively safe area.”

            “She’s definitely doing that. She came along on the Falkreath mission.”

            “They let her-“ Maro choked down the rest of his words. “Of course they did. She’s a, what is it?”

            “Whelp,” Rikke supplied. “Trainee Companion.”

            “Strange, but…” Maro sighed. “Thanks for letting me know, Gytha. I’ve been wanting to send someone down to Whiterun, but with the Emperor’s visit and Vittoria’s wedding…”

            “We need to deal with Ulfric before Vittoria’s wedding,” Elisif said firmly. “Commander Maro, please have Vittoria send orders to Orthus concerning a relief force from Cheydinhal, due to arrive in… hmm… three weeks. Legate Rikke, I want you and Tullius to send troops to the Rift somehow.”

            “Haemar’s Pass,” Gytha said immediately. “It’s the back door to the Old Holds, comes out near Ivarstead within striking distance of the northern Rift or southern Eastmarch.”

            “Your knowledge of the land is impressive,” Rikke noted.

            “Being a vagrant for most of my life taught me the trails of backwoods Skyrim,” Gytha said dryly.

            “I’d appreciate it if you could guide us. My knowledge is mostly northern Skyrim, parts of Falkreath and County Bruma,” Rikke admitted. “I’m a Paler.”

            “You poor thing,” Gytha told her. “Dawnstar’s almost as bad as Windhelm.”

            “When Brina’s in charge, it will be better,” Rikke promised quietly. “Can I count on you?”

            Gytha glanced at Elisif, who nodded slightly. “Yeah, sure. What’s the worst that can happen?”

…

The plan went swimmingly and Ulfric was now gagged and bound, stuck in a wagon surrounded by traitors and a couple poor sods who were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Tullius had invoked an old Legion tactic called ‘carnificina’, where the non-locals in a radius of five miles around a particular town were rounded up and carted off for execution. Brutal, because Gytha recognised Lokil as a fellow vagrant, but if it got Ulfric executed…

            “Can’t we spare Lokil? He’s a bloody chicken thief, not a rebel,” she asked the General softly as they rode back to Helgen, where Ulfric would be expedited to Sovngarde, and good riddance to him. “And that Reacher guy’s a peddler named Bryn. I’ve seen him around before.”

            “Sadly, no,” Tullius said with a sigh. “We need to make this a clean sweep of things.”

            “Fine. Just save Bryn for after Ulfric. Like me, he was dispossessed by the Stormcloaks and deserves to see that bastard kiss the headsman’s bride.”

            “That’s a reasonable request,” Tullius agreed. Then he sighed again. “I don’t like the carnificina, but I don’t need Ulfric’s supporters trying to free him. It’s for security, not because I’m in the mood for a bit of sadistic slaughter.”

            “Oh, I understand. It won’t win you any more friends in the Old Holds though.”

            “Probably not,” the General confirmed. “But you and I aren’t here to be popular, Black Wolf. We’re here to get the job done.”

            She couldn’t argue with that.

            “Mopping up Stormcloak remnants will be fun,” she said. “I know there’s a camp in Eastmarch, but they’re a bit too well-defended for me to take on. Give me a squad of Bosmer hunters and we’d have no problems.”

            “Hopefully most of them will give up and go home,” Tullius said sourly. “We need every man for… future conflicts.”

            _The Thalmor_ , his tone said.

            “One fight at a time,” Gytha counselled. “I won’t consider this one over until Ulfric’s ugly head’s on a pike at Solitude’s gates.”

            “Oh no, his head’s bound for the Imperial City’s gates,” Tullius corrected.

            “I see he _really_ pissed off the Emperor for that dubious honour,” Gytha said dryly.

            “Man took half of Skyrim in three months but had plotted his plans in advance for a good twenty years,” Tullius said grimly. “His actions pulled my people out of quelling the piracy in Iliac Bay. You best bet your Nord arse he’s pissed off the Emperor.”

            “You’re starting to sound like a Nord, sir,” Quaestor Hadvar said from the other side of Tullius.

            “All the more reason to get out of here before I start liking mead,” the General said as he nudged his blood bay gelding into a canter.

            “I’m guessing he’s been only drinking Black-Briar mead,” Gytha said dryly. “Honningbrew’s much better.”

            “Sabjorn only waters down his mead with water. Maven uses horker piss,” Hadvar said with a grin.

            “Yeah, and her own piss for the Reserve.”

            They laughed. Over the past couple days, Gytha had come to like the soft-spoken, easy-going Hadvar. Not like _that_ , of course, but as a colleague.

            “So the war’s nearly over. What will you do?” Hadvar asked.

            “Just because Ulfric’s head’s going to farewell his body soon doesn’t mean the fun is over,” Gytha warned. “He’s got followers in every Hold. Then there’s people who might want to snip off a bit of land from their neighbours, bandits that need mopping up… My work is only just beginning.”

            Her words were truer than she realised.


	7. Black Wings Unfurled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

“WELL, DOESN’T THIS JUST TAKE THE FUCKING CAKE!”

            Hadvar stared at the Black Wolf of Solitude in slack-jawed amazement as they sheltered behind a charred cottage. The black dragon that had descended on Helgen from out of nowhere was just in front of them, snakelike neck swaying as it strafed the battlemages with fire. “Are you sure it’s a good idea to yell right now?” he whispered hoarsely. “It might hear us.”

            “He’s a little busy frying the mages to notice us,” the wiry little Reacher retorted, lowering her voice. “Once he lifts off, we leg it for the Keep. If that black-winged mongrel is a friend of Ulfric’s…”

            “You’re right.” Hadvar waited for the dragon to take off again before crawling behind the cottage. “Ready when you are…”

            “On a count of three,” she ordered. “One… two… three!”

            They were halfway across the courtyard when Ralof intercepted them. “Ralof, you damn traitor! Where do you think you’re going?” Hadvar demanded.

            “We’re leaving, Hadvar, and you can’t stop us!” he said cheerfully.

            “Fine! I hope that beast takes you all to Sovngarde!”

            “And may he choke on Ulfric’s rancid bearskins,” Gytha added savagely.

            “That thing’s no friend of ours,” Ralof said before running to a door in the Keep.

            They just beat the dragon’s third or fourth sweep over Helgen, getting into the barracks and slamming the door behind them. “Round up every soldier we find,” Gytha said. “Don’t get into fights with the escaping Stormcloaks unless they pick it first.”

            “Yes, ma’am.” Hadvar was relieved someone sensible was giving orders. He could see why Elisif had entrusted this agent of hers with so much. Rumour was the scheme that captured Ulfric had its origin in Gytha’s clever, vengeful mind.

            She led them to the front chamber, where Tribune Iulia and a couple other soldiers were in combat with Ralof. The peddler Bryn was staying out of the conflict, hands held in the air. “Bryn mac Gillam!” Gytha yelled. “With us!”

            “I’m no fan of the Legion, lass,” he retorted in a lilting brogue.

            “You’re less a fan of the Stormcloaks.”

            “…True.” Bryn picked up a Stormcloak’s dropped axe and went to brain Ralof, but the Stormcloak pushed past them to the door, escaping the Keep. “Well, damn.”

            “Tribune,” Gytha told Iulia. “What’s the situation out there?”

            “What do you think?” Iulia retorted.

            “Tribune, you’re talking to the Black Wolf of Solitude,” Hadvar told her.

            “Jarl Elisif’s personal agent? I apologise for the attitude, ma’am.” Iulia saluted Gytha. “Now what?”

            “We round up our soldiers and get the hell out of here. I don’t know why that dragon’s here, but I’m not eager to ask him.” Gytha nodded to Bryn. “Come on. No need to wait around for Ulfric and his friends.”

            “And here I was hoping I could kill the bastard,” Bryn said bitterly.

            “Maybe we’ll get lucky and he’ll choke the dragon.”

            “I’ll pray to the old gods to make it so.”

            There was some resistance in the deeper parts of the Keep but by the time they reached the bear cave that led to outside, there were ten Imperial survivors. “I hope Tullius made a run for it,” Gytha said, peering ahead worriedly. “Now’s not the time to be a hero.”

            “The General understands tactical withdrawal in the face of an overwhelming enemy,” Iulia said stiffly.

            “Then he might be the first sensible Colovian I’ve ever met. Most of you lot are nearly as bad as lowlander Nords for standing and fighting.”

            The two archers in the group killed the bear. It had served its purpose.

            “Black Wolf of Solitude, eh, lass?” Bryn asked Gytha as the bear was skinned by Hadvar.

            “Don’t blame me for it. I walked into the Blue Palace wearing some fancy duds and everyone mistook me for a hero,” Gytha told her fellow Reacher dryly.

            “You _are_ a hero,” Iulia said. “You wiped out the Dark Brotherhood with the Companions, you killed a renowned battlemage by yourself, you banished Potema…”

            “I had help and luck. I only hope no one expects me to kill that fucking dragon with a sling and a prayer.” She took a deep breath. “Alright, once we know the dragon’s gone, we split up. Tribune, I want you to take your people to Falkreath to alert the Jarl. I’ll go to Whiterun and warn Balgruuf, then Morthal to alert Idgrod, and finally Elisif in Solitude.”

            “I’ll send word to Bruma as well,” Iulia promised. “That thing came over the Jeralls.”

            “Did it? I was a little busy watching Ulfric put his neck down on the block.” Gytha sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Bryn, where were you headed?”

            “Markarth,” he said. “I have business there.”

            “I know you don’t like Igmund any more than I do, but warn him. If there’s more than one dragon, the Reach’ll be popular. They say dragons like mountains.”

            Bryn sighed. “Fine. Then I’m going back to Riften.”

            “It wouldn’t be the same without you.” Gytha tilted her head. “Can anyone hear anything?”

            When no one said anything, the agent shrugged. “Here’s to hoping he’s gone.”

            The dragon was flying away as they emerged from the cave. “Looks like he’s gone for good this time,” Hadvar said. “Ma’am, can I come with you? My family’s in Riverwood and I want to warn them.”

            “Sure. I could use the company.”

            They made their farewells to Iulia, her squad and Bryn before taking the road to Riverwood, which ran by the Guardian Stones. Gytha went to the Thief Stone and touched it as Hadvar chose the Warrior Stone for good fortune in battle. “Thief?” he asked.

            “I’m small, scrawny and not that good a fighter,” Gytha said as she turned from the Stone. “My duty lies in getting things done and never mind the honour, Hadvar.”

            “But what about Sovngarde?”

            Gytha snorted. “No offence, but it’s full of Stormcloaks. I wouldn’t do very well there.”

            Hadvar shook his head in bewilderment. Despite her lack of size, she was a Nord. Surely any true Nord would want to go to Sovngarde?

            They reached Riverwood at sunset as his uncle Alvor was packing up for the night. “Hadvar!” he greeted delightedly. “What are you doing here?”

            “Warning Riverwood,” Hadvar told him grimly. “Helgen was attacked by a dragon.”

            “Are you drunk, boy?”

            “If he’s drunk, it must have been a damn good brew, because I saw the big black bastard myself,” Gytha said dryly.

            “Dammit. I thought I saw something a few hours ago. I was hoping it was my imagination.” Alvor sighed. “Come in and tell me all about it.”

            Alvor’s aunt Sigrid was dishing up bowls of cabbage soup when they entered the house. “Hadvar!” she said with a smile. “How have you been?”

            “Better,” he admitted. “Aunt Sigrid, this is-“

            “Gytha Bark-Shod,” the Reacher interrupted.

            “’Bark-Shod’?” Sigrid asked.

            “Before I became a courier, I used to be so poor that I wove my shoes from birch bark,” she explained.

            “Oh.”

            Hadvar took the hint. “We were at Helgen when the dragon attacked. Right before Ulfric was due to be executed.”

            “Convenient,” Alvor said grimly.

            “That’s what we thought.” Hadvar sat at the table and Gytha perched herself on a barrel. “Can we stay for a day or so? Gytha’s going on to Whiterun to warn the Jarl but I’ll have to report back to Rikke.”

            “Of course,” Alvor said. “This is your home – even if you haven’t the sense to be a blacksmith like me.”

            “It was always the Legion for me. You know that.” He accepted the bowl of soup from his aunt. “If the rebels have themselves a dragon, I’ll be needed all the more.”

            “I’m inclined to believe Ralof about him not being a friend of the Stormcloaks,” Gytha said quietly. “He attacked the rebels as readily as he did the Legion.”

            “How do you know it’s a he?” Alvor asked her.

            Gytha shrugged. “I just do. He wasn’t just going for damage, he was going for maximum pain. Kill the defenders first, then go for the civilians, then chase the last remnants. Classic terror tactic. The Forsworn do it in the Reach.”

            “You know a lot for a courier,” Alvor noted.

            “She’s a military courier,” Hadvar said quickly. “Because she’s known as a wanderer, Stormcloaks really don’t pay attention to her. I can’t say much more than that.”

            “Ooooh.” Alvor turned his attention to his soup.

            After dinner was done and Dorthe put to bed, the men broke out the mead and Sigrid sat down to mend one of Alvor’s tunics. Gytha did the dishes without being asked and then rolled out the pallet kept in the chest for guests. “I’ll leave at first light tomorrow,” she said. “Don’t get up early on my account.”

            Within moments she was asleep and Hadvar sighed. It had been a long day and the days to come would be longer yet.

            “She’s pretty enough,” Alvor said tentatively.

            “I don’t think she’s interested in men,” Hadvar told him. “You learn these things in the Legion and believe me, Gytha is not interested in men.”

            “You need to get married,” Sigrid told him.

            “If it’s meant to happen, it’ll happen. We’re a bit busy with a civil war at the moment.” Hadvar sighed again. “We were one axe-blow away from winning the war. Just one!”

            Alvor patted him on the shoulder. “It’ll be over soon.”

            “I can only hope.”


	8. Dragon Rising (Or Why Am I Responsible For Everything?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Gytha’s snark is strong in this chapter, LOL. Trigger warning for misogyny, classism and graphic violence. Playing around with the early main questline because I can.

 

“Look, the city’s closed because of the dragons.”

            “Yes, because the flying lizards are going to be impressed by closed gates when they set fire to your roof,” Gytha retorted flatly. “My name is Gytha and I’m here to warn the Jarl about the events of Helgen.”

            The two gate guards, swathed in Whiterun’s saffron, exchanged glances. “Look, you can go on in, but we’ll be watching you,” warned the one who barred her entrance.

            “Good. I hope you enjoy the show.”

            He opened the gate and she pushed past him. Whiterun was a prosperous city where even the beggars were fed regularly. Brenuin was begging for meat at the butcher’s stall. Couldn’t he just nip outside and hunt a rabbit? Urban vagrants were lazy, she swore.

            She walked into Dragonsreach and was halfway to the dais where Balgruuf conferred with his Steward before the huscarl Irileth intercepted her. “Who let you in?” the Dunmer demanded. “The Jarl isn’t receiving visitors at the moment.”

            “I was at Helgen. My name is Gytha Bark-Shod, also called the Black Wolf of Solitude,” Gytha replied calmly. If she was saddled with that ridiculous name, she’d make use of it.

            “ _You_ were at Helgen? Come, Balgruuf will want to speak to you.” Irileth led her to the throne where Balgruuf slouched.

            Up close, the Jarl was rangy and a bit dishevelled, as if the dragons’ reappearance had distracted him. He levelled a keen blue gaze at her and said, “So, you’re Elisif’s Black Wolf. What were you doing at Helgen?”

            “Escorting Ulfric to the headsman’s block, Jarl Balgruuf,” Gytha replied grimly. “Damn dragon attacked just before the headsman could give him a shave.”

            “I should have figured Ulfric would be involved somehow,” Balgruuf said with a sigh.

            “The Stormcloaks are pretty adamant the dragon wasn’t on their side. Given the way it attacked everyone, I’d be included to agree,” Gytha continued. “That’s not to say they wouldn’t take advantage of their presence, however.”

            “Ulfric can talk in Dragonish,” Balgruuf said flatly. “If he is pushed enough, I could well believe it.”

            The Jarl leaned forward. “Why bring the news to me first?”

            “Alvor at Riverwood asked me to and I had to come to Whiterun anyway to return to Solitude, so I felt I could spare a few hours,” she admitted.

            “It’s appreciated.” Balgruuf’s mouth quirked in a grim smile as he rose to his feet. “If you could spare a day or so, I may have a job in line with your… talents relating to dragons.”

            Gytha met those blue eyes. “My services are only available to Elisif, the Legion and their allies in that order, Jarl Balgruuf. I understand why you haven’t chosen a side in the civil war, but if dragons have returned… Whiterun can defend against one or the other, not both.”

            “That matches with my tactical assessment,” Irileth agreed.

            “The dragons take priority at the moment. Irileth, send a half-dozen or so men to Riverwood and Rorikstead,” Balgruuf sighed.

            “Of course, my Jarl.”

            “Is that wise?” his Steward oozed. “The Jarls of Falkreath and the Reach may assume you’ve joined Ulfric’s side and view that as a provocation.”

            “Fuck the Jarls of Falkreath and the Reach!” Balgruuf snapped, “I’ll not stand idly by while a dragon burns my Hold and slaughters my people!”

            He turned to Gytha. “Your loyalty is as great as rumour paints it to be. My loyalty to my Hold is as great. Why should I throw my resources behind Elisif and the Empire in return for your reported talents?”

            “We had captured Ulfric and some of his goons, including your cousin Ralof,” she replied calmly. “Literally, if it wasn’t for the dragon, they’d be dead now and the war over. I played a small part in arranging the ambush, but most of the credit goes to Jarl Elisif, General Tullius, Legate Rikke and Commander Maro.”

            “ _Elisif_ had a hand in it?” Balgruuf asked in surprise.

            “She’s quite firmly in the angry stage of grieving,” Gytha said dryly. “Don’t let her youth fool you, Jarl Balgruuf. She grew up in High Rock. You know what they’re like over there.”

            “I do,” Balgruuf conceded. “I… am more partial to the Empire for reasons of stability, but Ulfric has a lot of people and is much closer to Whiterun than Solitude.”

            “As I said, I understand your reasons for neutrality, but your weight in the civil war would end it much more cleanly and quickly,” Gytha told him. “Elisif knows politics but she needs someone who knows how it’s played in Skyrim.”

            Balgruuf rubbed his chin. “Aid me in this task – which is related to dragons, or so my court wizard tells me – and I will consider it.”

            “No deal. I could do this and you could still say no.” Gytha folded her arms. “My duty is to Haafingar. I was stopping here to warn you about Helgen as a courtesy call, Jarl Balgruuf.”

            “And just who are you to bargain with the Jarl as an equal?” Avenicci snapped.

            “I’m the Black Wolf of Solitude,” Gytha retorted. “I had a lot of help dealing with the dangers I have, but I’m probably better at what I do other than the Companions.”

            She looked at Balgruuf. “Side with the Empire or try and ask Ulfric for help. If he can speak Dragonish, I’m sure he knows a lot about them.”

            The Jarl actually growled. “You arrogant little bint!”

            “My Jarl, let us just hire some sellsword to delve into Bleak Falls Barrow,” the Steward said. “She’s competent, I’m sure, but-“

            “Irileth!” A guard, scorch marks on his tabard, came running into the Great Hall. “A dragon’s attacking the western watchtower!”

            Balgruuf’s language at that point could have done a Paler sailor proud. “Are there any survivors?”

            “I don’t know. Hroki told me to run and I…” The guard coughed. “What are we going to do?”

            “You’re going to the barracks. We’ll take care of this.” Balgruuf turned to Irileth. “Gather some men and slay this dragon. Do not fail me.”

            “Have I ever?” she countered before looking at Gytha. “Black Wolf, while this dragon rampages across the plains, the way to Solitude is dangerous.”

            “You don’t think?” Gytha observed sarcastically. “I guess this is where you politely request my help because, of course, there’s a crisis and I always somehow get dragged into it.”

            “Do this and I will strongly consider giving Elisif my allegiance,” Balgruuf said.

            “No. If I do this, you _will_ give the Empire your allegiance,” Gytha said grimly. “You yourself have said it’s more stable than Ulfric’s regime.”

            “She’s right, Balgruuf,” Irileth said quietly.

            “A compromise,” Balgruuf countered. “You slay the dragon personally, Elisif has my allegiance. If not, I’ll consider it some more.”

            “Fine.” Inwardly, Gytha was calling him every name under the sun. How was _she_ supposed to kill a dragon?

            Irileth and Gytha met some guards at the gate. “You rouse them up and I’ll scout ahead,” the Nord said to the Dunmer woman. “I suspect my sling and bullets will do better from the heights.”

            “Dragons reportedly have bat wings. I don’t know how strong the bones are, but a bullet to the wing won’t be fun,” Irileth agreed. “Go ahead. If you can cripple it, half the battle is won.”

            Gytha nodded and broke out into a ground-eating lope as guards opened the gates ahead.

            It was easy to find the watchtower in question because it was on fire. When Gytha arrived, the guard told her to get back and find cover because the dragon was wheeling around for another attack. Then he prayed to Kyne as she bolted for the stairs, dodging smouldering bits of stone, for the roof. Gods, she hoped dragons were nearsighted.

            The dragon swooped in just as Irileth and her men arrived, taunting them in the same guttural language its black cousin had used at Helgen before breathing fire. Irileth retorted contemptuously in the same language and cast lightning magic at it. Gytha loaded her sling and swung around three times before launching a lead bullet at one batlike wing.

            The bullet struck and the dragon pulled in its left wing instinctively, losing momentum and crashing to the ground. The guards closed in and Gytha reloaded, firing whenever the beast tried to rise above the ground. The dragon roared in frustration, breathing fire and trying to lay waste to the guards and Irileth, but it must have been the black bastard’s idiot cousin because it didn’t work. The guards used their shields to protect themselves from the fire and a couple smart ones threw the fiery shields back at the dragon.

            It seemed the dragon wasn’t immune to its own fire. What a shame.

            Gytha ran downstairs once the dragon was covered in blood, drawing her axe, and arrived just in time to see a burly blond guard beat its head in with a warhammer. “Dovahkiin? Niid!”

            With those famous last words, the dragon burst into flame and turned into light that spiralled in on Gytha, leaving nothing but a bleached bone skeleton behind.

            She was too busy to notice, trying to absorb a foreign personality and worldview, until a word from the Dragonish wall near Meridia’s shrine popped into her head. “Sa!” she yelled and wind swirled around her axe, making it lighter.

            Then Gytha fainted.


	9. The Jarl, Her Champion and Her Consort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading. Sorry for the long hiatus, my muse was playing with other ideas in my main ‘canon’ and RL was sucking something fierce.

 

When the news first came to Solitude, Elisif could hardly believe it. Ulfric had escaped Helgen, rescued by a dragon! Dragons were myths of the misty past, of the time of Ysgramor and Nerevar, with no place in the modern world. But then the reports trickled in. Then they grew into a flood. Then a dragon attacked Dragon Bridge and had set fire to several cottages, killed a few guards, and only died at the hands of Maro and his Penitus Oculatus. Still it had remained, unrotting and unmoving, blocking the damned road to Solitude… until Gytha returned. Then it had burst into flame that was swiftly absorbed by her until all that were left were some grey-brown bones.

            Gytha now sat in Elisif’s solar, a large cup of Colovian brandy in her hands, and all the weariness of something ancient in her big leaf-green eyes. There was a different air about her, something predatory, and one of the servants swore her pupils flashed red-green in the light.

            “Good news is we have Balgruuf’s allegiance,” the agent reported hoarsely, gesturing to the axe on the delicate ivory-inlaid table. “There should be an appropriate axe for you to send him in the armoury. If not, Beirand will know how to make one.”

            “Strange custom,” Maro noted.

            “Giving someone a weapon that can kill you is a big sign of trust in Skyrim,” Falk observed. “News will get out very quickly.”

            “Ulfric will attack Whiterun,” Gytha said grimly. “It’s getting to winter and he’ll need its gold and grain. He’ll probably pick mid-autumn, when the harvest’s over but the slaughter-season hasn’t begun.”

            “So that’s about a month away at best,” Elisif said with a sigh. “What about the dragons?”

            “They’ll attack everyone. They used to rule Skyrim and want to do so again.” Gytha drained half her brandy. “And I’m the one who’s supposed to fight that big black bastard. Balgruuf’s court wizard, who’s studied the Dragon Cult, tells me he’s called the World-Eater.”

            “Having the Dragonborn on our side will mean more than you realise,” Falk said. “Gytha isn’t just a hero of Solitude now, she’s a hero of prophecy and legend. Reman Cyrodiil, Tiber Septim, Martin Septim – all Dragonborn. And now the Black Wolf stands among their ranks.”

            “More than that,” Legate Rikke said quietly. “Gytha is the Last Dragonborn, the prophesised saviour of the world. The breaking of the Staff of Chaos, the Warp in the West, the rise of the Nerevarine, the Oblivion Crisis and the Thalmor occupation of the White-Gold Tower were the signs that led to her.”

            Maro gave her a startled glance. “What do you mean?”

            “I found a book in Bards College,” Rikke said, gesturing to a dark blue volume next to the axe on Elisif’s coffee table. “ _The Book of the Dragonborn._ The prophecy is pretty explicit once you read it with hindsight.”

            “You’re the Shieldmaiden,” Falk said shortly. “I’ll take your word for it.”

            Rikke smiled thinly. “I appreciate that, Falk. I live for your approval.”

            Elisif chuckled and reached over to squeeze Gytha’s hand. After hearing all that, she’d want a drink too.

            “So we have a month to properly garrison Whiterun,” Rikke continued. “I’ve managed to talk General Tullius into giving me a squad for a specific purpose. Dragonborn, forgive me, but we will need your stealth and wits on this one.”

            “What is it for, the magical arse-bone of Ysgramor that’ll kill this World-Eater with a single blow?” Gytha asked wryly.

            “No.” Rikke’s mouth quirked a little. “Have you ever heard of the Jagged Crown?”

            “The lost crown of the old Nord kings?” Elisif asked in some surprise.

            “The very same. ‘Maw unleashing razor snow/of dragons from the blue brought down/births the walking winter’s woe/the High King in his Jagged Crown’.” Rikke met everyone’s eyes. “One of my agents tells me Galmar Stone-Fist, Ulfric’s second, has dispatched a squad to Korvanjund to retrieve it. My research in the Bards College tells me King Borgas, who last wore it, was interred there. Galmar no doubt has a similar force – and he’s not a sentimentalist. It’s there.”

            “We have the Dragonborn and we’d have the crown of the ancient kings,” Elisif said calmly. “That would be a powerful boost to our cause. Gytha-“

            “Stormcloaks and draugr. At least there’s no dragons involved,” the Black Wolf interrupted. “I’ll go.”

            Elisif’s shoulders bowed in relief and she squeezed Gytha’s hand again. “Thank you.”

            “Give me a day or so to rest,” Gytha continued. “I want Ulfric to get nice and cosy and think he’s got this one in the bag. Good men died at Helgen because of him.”

            Maro grinned. “I like how you think.”

            “It’ll take me a couple days to requisition everything anyway,” Rikke assured her. “The way the quartermaster acts you’d think I was spending his hard-earned gold.”

            They talked a little more about incidentals before Rikke had to return to Castle Dour. Tullius had taken wounds at Helgen, so the General was recuperating and sending his Legate Primus down daily to consult with Elisif. Respect was a wonderful thing, she realised. She was becoming more than Torygg’s widow.

            She sighed. Torygg had been dead for most of a year and even though she fiercely missed him, there were things she had to do to stabilise her rule and secure its posterity. Gaius Maro was a good man and bastard son of the Emperor. Though he wasn’t the best wartime commander, he knew security and politics. He was a fit Prince Consort to be married in due time, and to be a father to Torygg’s child.

            Gytha’s green eyes flicked between Elisif and Maro. “You two want some time alone?” she asked, sounding overly casual.

            Elisif almost flinched. Was she that obvious or did the Dragonborn see deeper than most? And if she was considering Maro as Prince Consort, why did she feel like she was betraying Gytha?

            The Jarl of Solitude knew she was beautiful. It was a weapon in her arsenal like Gytha’s sling or Maro’s gladius. Had her Black Wolf fallen in love with her?

            “I’m sorry,” she said and Gytha shrugged.

            “You’re pregnant and alone on a shaky throne. He’s the son of the Emperor. Makes sense.” Gytha’s mouth twitched in an attempt at a smile.

            Falk’s eyes widened. “How’d you know about the Jarl’s pregnancy?”

            “For fuck’s sake, I’ve seen enough women whelping to know what it looks like,” Gytha said exasperatedly. “It’s not some mystical dragon crap.”

            “If Gaius wasn’t in love with Faida down at Dragon Bridge, I’d have sent him,” Maro admitted quietly. “But… I’m glad you appreciate the politics, Gytha. I know you care very much for Elisif and she for you.”

            Gytha shrugged too carefully. “Hey, this isn’t a tale. The princess doesn’t fall in love with the pauper and they live happily ever after in a glorious castle. Elisif’s made me what I am and I owe her everything. I’ll take what I can get.”

            “Like hell!” Elisif burst out. “You deserve better!”

            The Dragonborn’s smile was wry. “Elisif, men aren’t my thing. You couldn’t have a Reacher triad marriage if one of the people won’t sleep with the other. That’s assuming the Cyrods and the Nords didn’t explode over the whole thing.”

            “But there is a High Rock tradition of certain high-ranking noblewomen having a, ah, Champion,” Falk said quietly. “Preferably one of the same gender. That way she could marry for state and have loving support at the same time.”

            Elisif could have kicked herself for not thinking of that first. How much anguish did Gytha go through?

            Maro was nodding. “Elisif, you’re a young attractive woman, and I’m deeply honoured you’ve decided on me for Prince Consort. Skyrim needs more connections to Cyrodiil and the Mede dynasty, even if it’s on the wrong side of the blankets. But my duty is to the Penitus Oculatus and keeping Akaviria alive long enough to claim the Ruby Throne when her grandfather dies. So… if we marry, I’m comfortable with the Black Wolf of Solitude as your Champion, because I will be gone for long stretches at a time.”

            Gytha looked gobsmacked and Elisif herself was quite shocked. Cyrods, particularly Colovians, were straight-laced and strict about monogamy. She didn’t expect such flexibility from Maro.

            She didn’t expect that Gytha was serving out of love, not just loyalty. And where love was given to a liege by the Champion, love was owed.

            “You’re wrong, Gytha,” she said softly. “This _is_ a tale. Will you be my champion?”

            Gytha’s bow of the head was enough and more than enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be polyamory in this story as my Elisif is bisexual and needs to marry for political advantage and to give her child a father; it’s a vee centred on her as Gytha’s homoromantic and on the asexual spectrum (probably demi or grey, she hasn’t told me yet) and has no interest in men, while Commander Maro’s perfectly content to be Prince Consort of Skyrim and friends with them both.


	10. The Jagged Crown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. I’m baaaack! Sorry for short chapter, my muse is on holiday.

 

“Galmar didn’t waste any time,” Rikke noted as the Imperial squad knelt in a clump of bushes, watching the patrolling Stormcloaks. “This is proof positive the Jagged Crown is here.”

            “Another day, another ancient lowlander artefact,” Gytha said sourly. The Dragonborn didn’t look happy to be here, which was more than fair enough in Rikke’s opinion. As Elisif’s Champion and Alduin’s prophesised bane, she probably had better things to do. But Rikke needed her speed, stealth and agility on a mission like this. “So what’s the plan?”

            “We take out the sentries and use as much stealth as possible to pick off the Stormcloaks inside,” Rikke told her. “Any problem with that, Dragonborn?”

            “No. You might be the first sensible person from the Old Holds I’ve ever met.” She pulled out her sling and a handful of lead shot. “Leave the sentries to me. No offence, but you clank like an ironmonger’s in that officer’s armour.”

            “None taken.”

            Gytha breathed a word and exited the bushes. Rikke listened and heard three thuds before a Stormcloak shouted the alarm. On that signal, she rose and led her soldiers in a charge.

            Hadvar was pulling his gladius out from a rebel’s body when the Dragonborn climbed the stairs. “Sorry about that,” she said. “My speed Shout doesn’t last very long. Damned if I know why.”

            “Every Shout has three Words,” Rikke explained. “You only know one of this Shout.”

            “Huh. Maybe I should go to High Hrothgar and talk to these Greybeards.” Gytha sighed gustily. “Where’d you learn so much about Dragonborn and Shouts?”

            “The Bards’ College for the former. The latter… Well, I served in the Old Holds Auxiliary Force during the Great War. With Ulfric,” Rikke admitted. “Before the Thalmor captured and tortured him, he was a true son of Skyrim and Imperial loyalist.”

            “A lot of old friends are on the rebels’ side,” Hadvar agreed bitterly. “We better get going before Galmar gets away with that damned crown.”

            Gytha nodded and they entered the tomb. Stormcloaks patrolled the front room and Rikke gestured to the archers to take out their counterparts on the rebel side. Iron and steel arrows whistled through the air and the sudden charge took care of the rest. In the next room, there were a few more Stormcloaks, but Hadvar and Caedus were able to deal with them. The corridor leading to the third room looked like a tempting ambush site and Rikke glanced at Gytha.

            “I’ll scout ahead,” she said and vanished into the shadows.

            By the time screams reached Rikke’s ears, two of the Stormcloaks in the next room were dead, little better than charred meat from broken fire pots on earth tar. The other two were trying to shoot the Dragonborn, who dodged them easily enough but wasn’t able to load her sling and return fire. Caedus, armed with a crossbow, was able to take down the one in bearskin armour.

            It wasn’t Galmar and Rikke wasn’t sure if she was happy or sad about it.

            There were more rooms and corridors full of Stormcloaks until they reached the inner bowels of the tomb, where the draugr reigned. Bone walkers died like anyone else, though they took two soldiers with them, and they eventually reached the puzzle door. Hadvar found the claw and opened it with a few heaves of his mighty shoulders. Rikke ignored her soldiers looting the dead Stormcloaks.

            More corridors, a couple traps, a locked grate and another half-dozen draugr got them to the inner sanctum, where King Borgas’ embalmed body sat on a throne, wearing the Jagged Crown. It was a grotesque helm of dragon teeth and Rikke shuddered at the sign of her people’s barbaric past.

            “If dragons keep on attacking me, Elisif might just wind up with a matching set of jewellery,” Gytha said dryly as she loaded a pitch-black bullet into her sling and dropped into a crouch. “Beirand’s very interested in the dragonbones he got from that bastard the Solitude guard killed.”

            “He’s welcome to them,” Rikke said. “Think you can put the king-draugr down with one strike?”

            “Hope so. SA!” She whirled the sling and launched the bullet. The draugr moved just before it caved the withered face in.

            “Fuck!” The Dragonborn pulled her hatchet from her belt and launched herself at the king-draugr, the weapon moving with unnatural speed.

            Her first blow broke the arm holding a sword and the second the other. The king-draugr tried to bite her instead and the two coffins to either side opened to reveal two draugr-lords.

            It was here where Hadvar revealed his true strength. The huge soldier picked up a stone lid and hurled it at the incoming draugr, crushing them beneath its weight. By the time Rikke could close in, Gytha was smashing their heads in with another invocation of her speed Shout.

            “There it is,” she said, gesturing to the Jagged Crown that had fallen from Borgas’ head. “Who’s taking it back?”

            “You,” Rikke told her. “You know the fastest route back to Solitude.”

            “Will you be alright on your own?” she asked.

            “We’ll be fine.” Rikke smiled at her reassuringly. “Get the hell back to Solitude. This will be a big boost to our morale and cause.”

            The Dragonborn nodded and left, pausing to absorb a word from the Dragonish carving on the wall. Rikke wondered what it said.

            Then she turned to looking for the old king’s treasures. War needed money and the Legion was running short of it.


	11. A Pale Plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death and violence.

 

“That is a truly hideous piece of headgear,” Tullius remarked as Elisif took the Jagged Crown from Gytha’s hands. Her wrists bent under the unexpected weight but she steadied them, examining the fang-framed bone circlet.

            “Dragons aren’t pretty,” Gytha said wryly. “That was made from a dragon’s jaw, General.”

            “Stendarr’s mercy,” the Colovian breathed. “So, what now?”

            “Damned if I know. You’re the tactician.” Gytha removed her black wolfskin cloak, splotched with mud and other unidentifiable stains, and folded it over her arm. Elisif’s Champion was still thin and scrawny despite several weeks of feeding. Maybe she was one of those people who never gained weight.

            “I’d like to secure Dawnstar and the Rift before you can go to Ivarstead to speak to these Greybeards,” Tullius mused. “The dragons seem to be settling down at various hills and peaks across Skyrim.”

            “Guarding Word Walls,” Gytha said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Not the smartest choice of Alduin’s to provide a way to power the Word once I’ve learned it.”

            “Oh?”

            The Black Wolf took a deep breath. “So, according to what I’ve learned from Rikke and Balgruuf, I can learn Words because I have a dragon’s soul and can absorb the souls of other dragons. Each Shout has three Words. It’s like a primal incantation, I suppose.”

            “So how can Ulfric Shout?” Elisif said, putting the Jagged Crown on the table.

            “Prayer and meditation. He was a Greybeard before fighting in the Great War.” Gytha released her breath slowly. “Rikke used to fight with him and Galmar.”

            “I know. Her understanding of Ulfric’s psychology is one of the reasons she’s my second,” Tullius said with a smile. “So, about securing the Rift and the Pale…?”

            “Makes sense. It’ll cut off Ulfric’s western and southern trade routes. If the dragons stay quiet, maybe we could end this war before I have to go fight Alduin,” Gytha agreed. “I need to be able to travel across the Old Holds safely to reach High Hrothgar…”

            Tullius leaned forward. “I have some ideas on that.”

…

People used to laugh at Torjon for being a good runner. Nowadays, if they saw him on the roads in his blue Stormcloak uniform, they gave way with nods of respect. Being Ulfric’s personal messenger was a hard job, but better someone who avoided combat than someone who wanted to see Sovngarde.

            He was on the road between Heljarchen and Windhelm when a figure in a black wolfskin cloak stepped onto the road. Small and scrawny with wiry scarred limbs, she wore better leather armour than most bandits, but the iron hand-axe hanging loosely in one hand revealed what she was. “Out of the way, bandit!” he ordered. “I’m carrying messages for the Stormcloaks.”

            “I know,” she said, lowering the hood to reveal partly braided ash-brown hair and big leaf-green eyes in a lopsided face with hideous scarring on the right cheek. Torjon, used to the aftermath of Stormcloak raids, realised a mace had disfigured her fine features. “You’ve chosen a bad cause. Hand over the messages and you don’t need to die.”

            “I’m the personal messenger of Ulfric Stormcloak himself!” Torjon retorted. “If you kill me-“

            “I’m the Black Wolf of Solitude,” the woman said grimly.

            Torjon stared. This scrawny scraggy vagabond was the feared Dragonborn and agent of Elisif? He laughed in disbelief.

            The last thing he saw as the hand-axe moved with unnatural speed were leaf-green eyes with pupils that flashed like a sabre cat’s…

…

Frorkmar Banner-Torn was a little surprised to see a small scrawny wench instead of Ulfric’s personal messenger Torjon, but she wore the uniform and carried the appropriate papers. “I was scoutin’ between Heljarchen and Angi’s Mill when I found the poor man, Talos rest his soul,” she told him in a Rifter’s rough accent. “His head was all caved in and birds were pluckin’ his eyes, they were.”

            “Talos have mercy,” Frorkmar sighed. “Did you think it was Legion?”

            “Oh no, I seen enough Legion wounds. They’s straight and fine and deep. Think an iron hand-axe did the deed. Who would butcher a messenger?”

            “The Legion has no honour, lass. They piss on Talos and demand we do the same.” Frorkmar read the messages that Torjon had died for. “Well, these are of some use. I see we’re getting those reinforcements for Fort Dunstad. Good. The place is overrun by bandits.”

            “They’s no honour these days,” she said, shaking her head. “None at all.”

            “Indeed.” Frorkmar scribbled some things on another piece of parchment. “Who’s your commander, lass?”

            She crinkled her brow in thought. Obviously not one of Skyrim’s brightest. “Well, there’s Horolf, who answers to Thorund, who answers to some blonde guy from Whiterun. You know, the one who’s always grinnin’. Never spoke to him much, but he eats at the Jarl’s own table.”

            “Ah, Ralof. Don’t let the grin fool you, lass. He’s one of Ulfric’s best agents.” Frorkmar handed the message to her. “Take this back to your commander in Windhelm. We could use Ralof’s band’s expertise in retaking Dunstad. He’s slipperier than an eel.”

            “Yessir. Will go right now, sir.”

            He tossed her a small bag of coin. “Get yourself a drink and some food at the Windpeak.”

            She dipped her head, thanking him profusely, and Frorkmar waved her away.

            Bless the gods for finding a use for even someone as limited as this scout.

…

Hadvar snorted ale through his nose as the Black Wolf of Solitude described her deception of the Pale’s Stormcloak commander. The thick accent and constant ducking of her head suggested that a village in the Rift was missing its idiot, and the Palers always did like to think they were smarter than everyone else.

            “Well done,” Rikke said. “I’ve got scouts watching Fort Dunstad. We’ll let the Stormcloaks clear out the bandits… Then we will clear out the Stormcloaks.”

            “I’ve established myself as a scout,” Gytha mused. “Why don’t I and a couple others deliver some mead to them, dosed with a little something to give them the running shits?”

            Legate Constantius, the Colovian commander of the Pale Imperial camp, grinned. “I like how you think, woman.”

            “It’s not very honourable,” remarked Jarn, the camp’s drill Quaestor.

            “Neither was what happened in the Reach when Ulfric took the place over,” Gytha said grimly. “Most of Ulfric’s commanders are veterans of that fight and well… my gods don’t have a problem with paying them back in kind.”

            “Neither do mine,” Rikke agreed. “There will be open battles, Jarn, but at the moment we’re on a timetable. We only have a few weeks to at least solidify our control over the Pale and the Rift before the Dragonborn needs to go to High Hrothgar.”

            Jarn grunted. “Understood, Legate Primus.”

            “Give me a couple days and I’ll have the doctored mead ready,” Gytha promised. She touched her forehead and vanished into the shadows.

            Constantius watched the Dragonborn leave. “I’m glad she’s on our side.”

            “So am I,” Hadvar agreed. “So am I.”


	12. Rescue from Fort Kastav

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

The battle for Fort Dunstad was a success. The Stormcloaks had taken casualties wiping out the bandits and the laxative-laced mead delivered by Gytha and a couple Paler Auxiliaries did the rest. Brina Merilis was raised to the Jarl’s throne, Skald’s head stuck on a pike and immediately requested assistance with nightmares inflicted on the people of Dawnstar. By the end of the second day, Vaermina’s Skull of Corruption was banished by a Priest of Mara, who consecrated the old tower to the Divine and made plans to set up a proper shrine so northerners could go and marry. Gytha didn’t even have a hand in it; that was all Hadvar’s work.

            When Winterhold’s Legate Sevan Telendas came calling with news that some of his people were imprisoned, Rikke called her staff together. “I know the Rift was next on the plan, but if we take Winterhold, Ulfric is completely flanked to the west,” she announced. “If Ulfric’s people question the Legionnaires in Fort Kastav-“

            Gytha raised her hand. “Small squad, infiltration, release the prisoners at night?”

            The Legate Primus regarded her wryly. “Dragonborn, are you reading my mind? Because that looks like you were reading my mind.”

            Gytha snorted quietly. “I _know_ you, Rikke. I don’t like tarrying while dragons are tearing up the skies, but you’re right about Winterhold. The College might even thank us for pissing off the mage-hating rebels.”

            “A couple good battlemages _would_ even the advantage of Ulfric’s Thu’um,” Rikke agreed. “Since you’re our best infiltrator…”

            Gytha sighed. “I know, I know.”

            And that was how Gytha found herself sneaking into a crumbling fort after dark in winter. Hadvar and his men waited to hear sounds of fighting before charging the gate. If she succeeded, the Stormcloaks would be hit from both sides and overwhelmed swiftly.

            Most Stormcloaks wore cheap hide or leather helmets, which gave little protection against lead bullets, and so Gytha achieved entrance into the cells. “Shut up,” she ordered one Legionnaire who opened his mouth. “We’re going to sneak upstairs, kill as many of the bastards in their sleep as we can, and then leave. There’s only a six-man squad waiting for us on the outside.”

            “There’s no honour in that,” the Legionnaire hissed.

            “There’s no honour in what happened in Markarth either. Ulfric and his lot forfeited any claim to honour a long time ago. Let’s go.”

            It was three of the scouts who accompanied her, slitting throats in beds or stabbing sleepy night-shift guards in the back. It was murder, pure and simple. Gytha wouldn’t pretend otherwise. But it meant none of her people died.

            When they emerged, clad in Legion armour, Hadvar blew a horn and his squad attacked. Twelve men to ten weren’t fantastic odds, since the Stormcloak archers were all out here, but Gytha ran to the battlements to take each of them out. She collected an arrow to the shoulder for her troubles and four Legionnaires died… but the Stormcloaks were annihilated, the last one who tried to flee shot in the back by a pissed-off Redguard.

            Erandur, the priest of Mara, came out to tend her wounds as Rikke’s people secured the roads. Next would be Winterhold. There were apparently less people in the entire Hold than there were in Dragon Bridge. Seeing the bleak snow and stone, Gytha could see why.

            “Do you think this will stop us?” Korir demanded as Rikke and Hadvar entered his longhouse.

            “Yes,” the Legate said flatly. “The gods and the Dragonborn are with us.”

            In the end, because he had a family, he was escorted down to a boat to be taken to Solitude. Gytha felt a bit sorry for the child and wondered what would become of him.

            “It’s war,” Rikke said bluntly. “Assur will likely be educated in Cyrodiil to inherit Winterhold – Kraldar’s an older man and there’s only one unmarried woman in the place. That’s more than you had after the Silver-Bloods took power.”

            True but… it made her uneasy. In reclaiming Skyrim for the Empire and Elisif, she was doing to the children what had been done to her, only with less brutality.

            She accepted Rikke’s request she run the message of their dual victories back to General Tullius with some relief. Maybe Elisif could put things in perspective.

…

The arrival of Gytha with news that Ulfric was now flanked to the north and west was good. Elisif invited her champion and General Tullius to a celebratory breakfast. Maro the Elder was in Whiterun preparing security for the Emperor’s visit in spring.

            “I want to strike while the metal’s hot,” Tullius said after smearing snowberry paste on some flatbread. “Take the Rift and then Windhelm. I know I’m putting these damned dragons off but…”

            “Ulfric’s reeling and we can’t let him recover,” Gytha finished, nibbling on some smoked salmon. “Elisif, what do you think?”

            She took a deep breath. It was strange to be considered seriously by Tullius, who remembered her as one of the Empress’ ladies in waiting. “I know the dragons are the greater threat, but Ulfric is the more immediate threat. He’s cornered now. When we take the Rift, it will be worse.”

            “So we have your permission to proceed with the reunification of Skyrim?” Tullius asked formally.

            She nodded. “Yes.”

            When breakfast was over and Tullius gone, Elisif sighed. The pregnancy was getting difficult and while Ulfric lived, she feared for her child’s future.

            “What’s going to happen to Assur Korirsson?” Gytha suddenly asked. “I’ve done to him what was done to me.”

            “There’s a very big difference,” Elisif began, only to be silenced by Gytha’s sober leaf-green gaze.

            “The Legion is the best option and Ulfric is a bastard. But that doesn’t mean children won’t be dispossessed and orphaned before this war is ended.” Gytha sighed and ate some grilled leeks. “I hope you have the answers, because I sure as hell don’t.”

            “I want to reach out to them,” Elisif said. “I really don’t want to execute anyone but Ulfric and his main supporters like Galmar and Ralof. Most of the Old Holds are angry and feeling neglected. That’s fair. When this is over, I hope to ask the Emperor for assistance in repairing Skyrim’s roads and forts.”

            “Good luck prying money out of a Cyrod,” Gytha noted. “You might need to use the spoils of war.”

            “Then I’ll do what I must.” Elisif took Gytha’s hands in hers. “I’ll be dealing with the Silver-Bloods sooner rather than later. Kolskeggr Mine will be restored to you.”

            She blinked. “You did your research.”

            “Of course. I’m even considering finding somewhere for Igmund and putting a native Reacher on the Mournful Throne. Do you have any suggestions?”

            “Ainethach. He’s my uncle, owns Suaranach, the second-best silver mine in the Reach. Reachman, but not of the Forsworn.” Gytha flushed. “I know the Silver-Bloods are pressuring him to sell his mine.”

            “I’ll definitely consider him,” Elisif promised. “Once Ulfric is dead, there will be changes in the Reach. I swear it.”

            Gytha’s smile was sad. “It could take a lifetime… but getting rid of the Silver-Bloods will start. Thank you, Elisif.”


	13. Blackmail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Happy Midsummer/Midwinter for my loyal readers. Also, fuck Maven Black-Briar.

 

Anuriel considered herself to be a wise woman, well versed in the realities of politics in the Old Holds in general and the Rift in particular. The Hold was practically owned by Maven Black-Briar yet Laila Law-Giver reigned in name. The city of Riften belonged to the resurgent Thieves’ Guild under the competent Brynjolf. So when a shadowy figure cloaked in black entered her bedroom as she wrote reports, she was unsurprised. “I’ll be with you in a moment,” she told the Guildsperson.

            “Now, you’ll be with me now,” said the figure, gesturing to produce a ball of soft white light. The accent was rural Rifter but the scarred, lopsided features and braided ash-brown hair were Reacher. The cloak was made of black wolfskin and an iron hand-axe rested easily on her hip.

            Anuriel knew who she was. The Black Wolf of Solitude had finally come to Riften.

            “Shouldn’t you be speaking to Maven?” the Bosmer asked flintily. “She’s the Imperial pick in the Rift.”

            “Maven is a corrupt piece of shit,” the Black Wolf said bluntly. “Jarl Elisif would rather not have her anywhere near the Moot.”

            “That makes two of us,” Anuriel admitted sourly. “But how do you propose to keep her from the Misty Throne? Laila supports Ulfric’s cause, if not Ulfric himself.”

            “Laila listens to you, for whatever reason,” the Black Wolf said. “I have evidence that you are in cahoots with the Guild. Now, I grew up in Honorhall and I know the realities of life in Riften, so I can understand. But that understanding won’t stop me from throwing you under the cart to put a competent Imperial-loyal steward in place if you don’t cooperate with me.”

            “Define ‘cooperation’,” Anuriel said slowly.

            “Convince Laila Law-Giver that the Imperials are in the right. Play up the horror of the Markarth Incident for the people of the Reach. Point out that half of her food goes to Eastmarch and the bellies of Ulfric’s soldiers without any net benefit to her or the Rift. You know the drill.”

            Anuriel pursed her lips. “It’s possible… but well, Laila is a simple, traditional woman. She’s thinking of her Talosite churls going to the Thalmor. You’d need to _show_ her these things.”

            “What do you mean?”

            The Bosmer took a deep breath and a gamble. “There’s three dragons in the Rift at Autumnwatch Tower, Northwind Summit and Lost Tongue Overlook. If you can kill them and bring their heads to Riften, I can guarantee you an audience. Laila will see the reality of the Dragonborn, Skyrim’s embodiment of honour and power, and be more inclined.”

            Those leaf-green eyes were steady. “Is that all?”

            “Well, there’s a couple skooma operations, but that’s surely beneath your dignity.”

            “Not really, but I should focus on the dragons.” The Black Wolf smiled. “You better get working on Laila. I’d hate to kill those dragons and find a group of guards waiting for me at Riften’s gate.”

            Anuriel gulped and nodded. She could see why people feared the Dragonborn as much as they revered her. “Of course.”

…

Gytha wound up collecting a genuine witch named Ilia, whose mother had been about to undergo the rites to make herself a Hag, in addition to the mercenary mage Marcurio she’d hired in Riften. Normally Gytha would have left the coven to sort out their internal squabbles by themselves, but being nearly taken as a sacrifice was… irritating. So there was one less coven of witches in Skyrim and now she had two mages, both capable of mayhem, to take on the three dragons.

            She checked in with Fasendil, the Legate of the Rift’s Legion camp, and told her Elisif’s plan to suborn Laila Law-Giver. “It could work,” the scar-faced Altmer said, rubbing his chin. Gytha wondered if he realised Ilia was making deer-eyes at him. It might do her some good. “But what about Fort Greenwall? Ulfric’s thrown the bandits out and put his own men in there.”

            “We’ve killed an entire coven of witches. One fort full of Stormcloaks will be trivial,” Marcurio said airily. “Think of it as… insurance.”

            “You’ve been in Riften too long,” Gytha observed, “But you have a point. I need to deal with the dragons as a gesture of goodwill to Laila. After that, Greenwall will seem trivial.”

            “I can spare you five men,” the Legate said. “I’d come personally but… well. I can’t leave this lot on their own.”

            “I appreciate it, Fasendil.”

            Two mages and five battle-hardened Legionnaires made the three dragons less… difficult. Arrows hitting wing-webs destroyed much of the dragon’s mobility and advantage of flight while lightning appeared to drain their ability to Shout. Gytha supposed it was a kind of magic. She lost a Legionnaire when he was bitten in half but that dragon followed him into death. She learned the first Words of three new Shouts – one that strengthened the death Shout she’d learned in the Dark Brotherhood’s Sanctuary, another that dismayed the enemy, and a third that had something to do with auras – and collected three heads.

            Fasendil and his men joined them to take Fort Greenwall. Gytha gained entrance using her village idiot routine and a cask of doctored mead. Not all of them drank it, but enough did. The rest put up a fight and cost half the Legion force of twenty. But they took the fort.

            It was a grim march to the gates of Riften, she, Ilia, Marcurio and Fasendil, and the guards took one look at the handcart of dragon skulls and quickly opened the gate. The streets were quieter than usual, the locals staring in shock and awe as the Dragonborn walked among them. The Dragonborn was accompanied by an Imperial Legate. It couldn’t be said that Rifters were slow to recognise new political realities.

            Laila still lounged on her throne. “Dragonborn,” she said in her clear, carrying voice. “I see you have rid the Rift of its dragons.”

            “I have. On the way back, we rid Fort Greenwall of its Stormcloak rebels,” Gytha said with a nod. “Ulfric is now flanked on all sides. I have no desire to unseat you, Jarl Laila, but if you persist in supporting his cause…”

            “You are a Nord. Why don’t you care about Talos?” Laila asked.

            “Because I am a Reacher.” She tapped her scarred cheek. “A Stormcloak mace did this to me because my father was the owner of the finest goldmine in the Reach. Most of Ulfric’s victims weren’t Forsworn, they were native folk who owned fine lands that the Silver-Bloods wanted. As Jarl of Riften, I’m sure you understand that some people will do whatever it takes to survive… or get ahead.”

            “By the Nine… err…” Laila flushed. “I’d thought the stories of the Markarth Incident were Imperial propaganda.”

            “They’re fairly close to the reality. Thanks to Ulfric, I spent years as a vagabond. Do you know what they used to call me? Gytha ‘Bark-Shod’, because I was so poor that I had to weave my shoes from plaited birch bark.” Gytha looked significantly at Laila’s two sons. “I don’t want to inflict that fate on those whose only fault is to be loyal to the wrong side.”

            Laila’s mouth tightened. “I’ve been told Maven Black-Briar is the Legion pick for the Jarl’s throne.”

            “She was. You, if you’re loyal, are Elisif’s pick. If not, Saerlund is getting married to Ingun and becoming Jarl. That may happen regardless, but wouldn’t you rather it be after you’ve had a long life as the beloved Jarl of Riften?” Fasendil asked, hand resting on his gladius significantly.

            “You’re blackmailing me,” Laila said.

            Gytha smiled wryly. “That’s what the Guild call it. Elisif tells me that in politics, it’s called negotiation.”

            Laila unwillingly laughed. “I never thought that pretty little girl had a clue.”

            “Laila, _please_. She grew up in Evermore. The Bretons invented what politics the mer missed.” Gytha fixed her with a grave stare. “So, who would you rather back? The Jarl who has the Dragonborn as her personal champion, a confirmed heir on the way, and a political awareness to match any Cyrod… or the Jarl who Shouts at people he doesn’t like and has a Fear enchantment on his axe.”

            The Jarl paused and then sighed. “You have me. May… I have a day to let the Talosites evacuate?”

            “Yes. But I will be staying here to make sure there’s no dirty tricks being played.”

            Everything went so easily that Gytha was certain something was going to go wrong. It didn’t, but it was smooth she felt uneasy. She wasn’t used to things going to plan like this. Maybe it was just Maven glowering at her from the corner as her daughter was married to Saerlund Law-Giver. Maven could be a future problem.

            But now, Gytha had a bigger problem to worry about. It was called Eastmarch. Ulfric was a cornered rat and the fight would be a hard one.

            Yet she would prevail. She had no choice.


	14. The End of Ulfric

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, and religious conflict. There will be a sequel detailing Gytha's fight with Alduin, but it seemed right to end the story here.

 

It was the end of the road and Ulfric knew it.

            Fort Amol had been taken two days ago, Legion soldiers secured every village in Eastmarch, and now they were surrounding Windhelm itself to take the city. Ulfric had locked it up siege-tight, confident in his walls or perhaps desperate enough to wait it out and hope for the best. The Jarl of Windhelm, typically, had forgotten about the Dunmer and Argonian inhabitants of the city. Gytha, and by extension Adelaisa and Rikke, hadn’t.

            “You’ll need waterbreathing and disease curing potions,” Adelaisa said as she nodded to Scouts-Many-Marshes and Shahvee, who’d both found work in the Empire’s merchant-marine. “The sewers are involved. I’m sorry.”

            The route inside was long, twisty and disgusting. Gytha emerged in a dark alley corner near the Cornerclub, startling a pair of Dunmer kissing. “You saw nothing,” she told them, handing over a small pouch of coin. “Go to the pub and drink to Ulfric’s demise.”

            The taller of the mer grinned, his teeth flashing white against his pale grey skin. “You’re the Black Wolf of Solitude, aren’t you?”

            “I am, yes.”

            The shorter laughed. “We saw nothing,” he assured Gytha.

            Wrapped in a filched piece of stained burlap, Gytha trudged along the streets, head down and expression hungry. The passing guards ignored her for the most part, only one or two stopping to tell her the curfew was in effect at sundown. Perfect. Just the time to open the gates.

            Two guards at the front gate didn’t stand a chance against a sling and lead bullets. Gytha took the keys, raised the bar and unlocked the gates. Quietly, vengefully, the Legion streamed into Windhelm and overwhelmed the few guards out and about. Tullius and Rikke strode for the Palace of the Kings, and as Elisif’s champion and the Dragonborn, Gytha joined them.

            They were met out the front by a tall, dark-haired Nord woman with harsh features and several Stormcloak soldiers. “Rikke!” she spat. “You traitor-“

            Gytha’s bullet disintegrated her face and ended any further speech.

            “She was a Shieldmaiden, dammit!” Rikke cursed as the Stormcloaks roared, telling everyone that the enemy was within the walls.

            “So?” Gytha asked, drawing her hand-axe.

            “Never mind.” But once the skirmish was over, Rikke laid a fold of the woman’s cloak over her face.

            To give Ulfric the credit, the man was sitting in his throne in the Great Hall when they entered, accompanied only by his huscarl Galmar. “So, you come to my hall to dispossess me,” the Jarl said with the edge of thunder in his voice.

            “It’s no more than you did to me in the Reach,” Gytha said grimly. “I wish I could say it’s a pleasure to see you again, Ulfric, but it isn’t. Dipping your head in tar and giving it to Elisif on a silver platter will truly make my day.”

            “Ah, Elisif’s Black Wolf.” Ulfric managed a grim smile. “A Reacher no less.”

            “As military governor of Skyrim, I sentence you to death,” Tullius said calmly. “You may choose to surrender or face summary execution by my hand.”

            “I will not go quietly into the good night,” Ulfric said, rising to his feet and drawing his sword. He took a deep breath and-

            “KRII LUN!” Gytha Shouted, the death Shout leaving her lips as his FUS RO DAH did his.

            She was blasted back to hit the wall but Rikke, her sword rising and falling, cut Ulfric down. Galmar cried out in anguish and betrayal. “We were your friends, Rikke!”

            “My oath is to protect the Empire of Talos,” the Legate Primus said sadly. “I’m sorry, Galmar.”

            He snarled and attacked. Tullius hamstrung him and Rikke’s sword made short work of what remained.

            Gytha picked herself up and limped over. “Is it done?”

            “Almost.” Ulfric coughed up blood and smiled. “Finish me, Dragonborn. It will make for a better song.”

            “Fuck your song.” Gytha turned away. “The Reach belongs to the Reachfolk, not the Nords.”

            Behind her, the Jarl of Windhelm gave one last choked-off cry.

…

Elisif regarded the tar-smeared head presented on a silver platter with a sense of relief and satisfaction.

            “Torygg’s been avenged,” she said. “Were you the one who killed him?”

            Gytha shook her head. “He wanted it to be me. I didn’t want to oblige him.”

            The Jarl of Solitude nodded. “It was more honour than he deserved.”

            Her champion sank into an empty seat. “This was nothing. Now I have to fight a goddamn dragon that wants to eat the world.”

            Elisif had almost forgotten that Gytha’s powers were for a cause greater than Skyrim. “You will prevail.”

            “Prophecy isn’t certainty,” Gytha said with a sigh. “I’m tired of fighting and killing. Can you please just hold me for a while?”

            Elisif rose to her feet, walked over and rested her chin on Gytha’s head as her arms enfolded her. “I love you, my Black Wolf. You are my Champion and you have delivered me my crown. I don’t know if we would have won the war without you.”

            They watched the sun set through the windows overlooking the western sea and for a moment, all was right in the world.


End file.
